Sentenced
by SarahKnight
Summary: Virtual series 4 opener. Sherlock's in prison being targeted by a murderer, John's married to a pregnant assassin and Moriarty's back. Eventual JOHN/SHERLOCK.
1. Boundary

Hello!

Whenever I see stories with hundreds of comments I always think 'Wow, that must be worth reading', and so I am really excited about the number of comments, favourites and follows Sentenced has got so far on this site and AO3.

The story came to me after watching series 3. Much as I like Mary, it bugged me that John forgave her for shooting Sherlock. And much as I love Sherlock, it bugged me that there was no real consequence for him murdering Magnussen. Not just morally, but because it was a lost opportunity for an exciting episode about Sherlock solving a case in prison! The story just wouldn't get out of my head and so I gave in and wrote it. I guess it also doubled up as therapy for me, as I'd recently realised I was bi and I wanted to explore the experience through my favourite characters.

This is written as a virtual series 4 episode 1 - it follows on directly from s03e03 and doesn't contradict canon. So kick back, relax, and imagine that series 4 has begun and the writers have finally given in to the fact that they're clearly closet John/Sherlock shippers! :)

Thanks very much to LittlePippin for beta reading, she is brilliant.

And thanks to everyone who has commented on the story so far, I've been so excitedly checking my emails and love to see the words: 'Review: Sentenced' in my inbox, it really makes my day. So please do let me know what you think, either of individual chapters or when you reach the end. Enjoy...

* * *

"What's that?" John asked.

"What?"

John pointed at Sherlock's black eye. "That," he repeated, with more emphasis.

Sherlock's fingers brushed against the purple swelling as if the memory of getting it momentarily distracted him. But only momentarily. "Must we do this 'how are you, how am I' rubbish, John?" he complained. "We only have half an hour. Focus."

John gritted his teeth. "I'm focused on this, Sherlock." He gestured to the their surroundings in Flitwick Prison's visiting room. On John's side of the room were angry wives, screaming kids and disappointed parents. On Sherlock's there were thugs, weirdos and psychopaths in matching maroon sweatpants, grey t-shirts and handcuffs.

In-between them were a wall and a window.

It was about as personal a visit as visiting the bank.

Not that he wanted things to be _personal_ personal with Sherlock. But there was not-personal, and then there was this.

It was like when you don't notice a building till it's been torn down, or don't hear the noise of the fridge until it clicks and goes off. Ever since there had been a literal wall between them, John felt like they had been wrenched apart. He ached to just reach out and squeeze Sherlock's hand, or punch him lightly on the shoulder, or brush his thumb over the tender skin of his black eye.

He also had an urge to smash through the glass, throw Sherlock over his shoulder and rescue him from the criminals he was trapped with, some of whom he had put into jail himself with his compulsive crime-solving, but he couldn't do that either. For one thing, the glass was bulletproof.

"Prison?" asked Sherlock, facetiously. "Yes, rather hard to forget, isn't it."

"Has Mycroft visited yet?"

"Why would he?"

John tutted. "Can't you just... y'know. Apologise? I mean, you did try to sell him out to a dangerous blackmailer, putting his job, his life, and the whole country at risk."

"Pfft," Sherlock said dismissively.

"And despite that, he still organised for you to be released from prison to go on that secret mission..."

"So?" Sherlock shrugged.

"And then when Moriarty returned, Mycroft sorted out that hearing so you could stay in the country after all. I mean, if you hadn't pissed off his boss with those deductions about her daughter... and step-son, and husband, and chauffeur..."

"The chauffeur was the step-son."

"...I'm sure he would've managed to keep you out of jail and..."

"I don't need him, John," interrupted Sherlock with a huff. "The parole hearing..."

"The parole hearing!" John said, incredulous. "You... Sherlock, it's only been a month... do you realise how little chance there is of a murderer..."

John stopped himself short.

The word 'murderer' hung in the air and John avoided Sherlock's gaze.

Sherlock frowned. A murderer. Was that how John saw him? Yes, he supposed it must be. John had killed, but only as a last resort to an immediate threat. Sherlock had killed Magnussen as a last resort to an impending threat. There was a subtle but important difference according to the judge - and, apparently, to John.

They had never talked about it before and Sherlock wasn't keen to start now. "Don't worry John," he said instead. "As always, I have a plan up my sleeve."

Ice broken, John near-shouted in response: "Well bloody-well hurry up with it!" He took a deep breath and forced himself to speak calmly: "I'm… Just… Worried," he said. "Black eyes, sprained wrists, split lip. It's something else every week, Sherlock. What the hell is going on in there?"

He didn't say that whether Sherlock was technically a murderer or not, it made him want to break in there and punch somebody, but that was one of the good things - and one of the bad things - about Sherlock. He almost always knew what you were thinking.

Sherlock sighed. "Fine, let's talk about our feelings then, if we must." He put on a mocking voice to imitate John, "How's prison, Sherlock? Shit actually, John – how's being married to a liar who's eight months pregnant with your child? Shit actually, Sherlock –"

"Oy!"

Sherlock screwed up his face, re-evaluating, "Okay, a bit crap, a bit good, generally confusing all round. I've been sleeping with a gun under my side of the mattress –"

That was cutting a bit close to the bone. "Sherlock…" John warned, but Sherlock was on a roll.

"– just in case. Well, I say _sleeping_."

John just rubbed his head in frustration.

Sherlock switched voices: "Oh dear, John, how terrible for you. Don't worry, I understand just how you feel. I can't sleep either – my cellmate's a killer too. Let's talk about it and hug."

John looked up to see Sherlock's cuffed wrists reaching out as if he could embrace him through the screen, his put-on expression simultaneously sympathetic and vulnerable. John looked Sherlock straight in the eye for five seconds, but still couldn't decide whether to laugh or shout or cry.

"Fine," he said eventually. "Let's talk about Moriarty."

"Finally!" Sherlock said with relief, withdrawing his arms.

"Only there's nothing to tell," John said.

"You're just not looking properly!" snapped Sherlock.

"I've done everything you said, Sherlock. There was no evidence linking those disappearances to Moriarty. People disappear."

"He's too good to leave evidence."

Now it was John's turn to snap, "Then what the bloody hell do you expect me to do? Maybe it was a hoax, maybe he's not even back. That's what everyone's saying."

"Oh, _everyone_," said Sherlock with disdain. "What do they know? Who cares what anyone thinks apart from me?"

John snorted. Sherlock didn't acknowledge it, just carried on: "So, you did everything else I said?"

"Uh huh," said John. "Yes. Went along with Lestrade to the crime scenes you asked about. Looked for the types of things you said. Looked on the victim's Facebook accounts. Everything. And still nothing to suggest he's back except that ridiculous video that went… viral, is it? I mean, it wasn't even live footage, Sherlock..."

But John was just playing devil's advocate. He knew they couldn't sit back and risk that Moriarty's return _wasn't_ a hoax. And Sherlock knew that he knew.

"Did 'everything' include – that thing?" Sherlock asked.

"The prescription?" asked John. "Yeah, I faxed it through to the prison doctor like last time. I do know what zamasaproxyl is for, you know. You gonna tell me why..."

"Not _that_ thing," said Sherlock.

Then John realized what he was referring to. "No! And like I said last time, I'm not going to be doing _that thing_."

Sherlock's sad response was almost pathetic.

"Are you… are you trying to pout? Are those supposed to be puppy dog eyes?"

Sherlock snapped out of it and asked: "Is it working?"

"No. No, no, no," said John, with finality. "Absolutely not."


	2. Amiss

Yet John did, of course, find himself in a graveyard in the middle of the night. The fact that Sherlock always almost turned out to be right, and regularly saved lives with his right-ness, made it impossible to resist following his instructions.

John had never forgotten the time he had been tempted to refuse to help Sherlock, mad at him for his insensitivity, for enjoying the case too much, and Sherlock had pointed out the hypocrisy of his inaction. What was worse? Saving somebody whilst enjoying a murder investigation, or refusing to help because of your own stupid ego?

And so, instead of being too proud to follow orders, he took a pride in doing exactly as Sherlock Holmes told him when it came to investigating a case.

It wasn't as fun without his best friend by his side, but, as he chided himself, fun wasn't the point, and at least he had his wife, dubious as he was about allowing her to come on cases with him in her condition. Problem was, she was equally dubious about allowing him to go investigating Moriarty on his own.

Ever since the consulting criminal had announced his return, Mary had become extremely protective, worrying that John would become a target. Any protests he made about her being pregnant were countered with protests about how the baby needed a father too and that they were safer together and doubly armed.

There was no stopping her coming along, gun tucked into a hidden holster under her maternity cardigan, just in case.

He wasn't sure what he thought of the whole thing. It was either very cool or very disturbing. Possibly both.

Mary, on the other hand, knew exactly what she thought of it.

"Kinda sexy," she said, smiling from where she sat perched on a low gravestone. "All manly, sweaty…"

John wiped a muddy hand through his hair. "You find late-night grave digging sexy. Why don't I find that reassuring?"

Mary's smile vanished at the subtle reference to her former life and shady history. "I thought you were going to stop doing that?"

"Yes. Sorry." John said. "It's in the past, we're putting it behind us. Right." He stuck the spade into the ground with a little too much force. "It's just… I don't like this."

Mary stood up carefully, cradling her bump as if to protect it from the jolt. John moved to help her but she waved him off and straightened up.

"This?" she asked, a little hesitantly, indicating the two of them with a wave of a hand.

John pretended not to notice that she wasn't sure if _this_ meant _them_. "Yes, this. Corpses. Not a hobby of mine."

"Not what I read in your blog," she quipped.

John was chewing the inside of his lip again.

It just didn't seem right, bringing his unborn child to dig up the grave of a master criminal. The most strenuous thing Mary should be doing right now was going to pre-natal classes and the baby should be listening to Bach or Mozart or something, not getting an adrenaline rush via her thrill-seeking mother.

Not that Mary looked remotely worried enough to be getting an adrenaline rush.

"I know what you're thinking," she said. "You didn't bring us, we just came. Just because I'm about to drop, doesn't mean I don't have your back."

She squeezed his arm, picked up the crowbar and moved towards the now open grave, side-stepping one of the heaps of mud and grass he had piled up around them.

"Wait!" said John.

She stopped short.

"I'll do it," he continued. "You stand back. Just in case."

She tutted. "I could totally own zombie Moriarty."

John's lip curled up in amusement. A moment later, he was giggling. She joined in and their eyes met, bright and alive.

But he looked away, and the moment was lost.

"If Moriarty's body's not in there, he's alive somewhere else, and he could've rigged this up as a trap for Sherlock." He started guiding her over to hide behind a large tree. "You just look after little Annabelle from a safe spot…"

"Annabelle?" she retorted. "After your mother? I don't think so."

He kissed her, with a mock-patronizing, "Later darling, I've got work to do."

She rolled her eyes but stayed put while he went back over and jumped into the grave. He sighed as he landed, wondering for the millionth time since he met Sherlock Holmes, whether or not he was crazy.

"Is he in there?" shouted Mary from behind her tree.

John's automatic response was a chuckle, but then he found himself frowning. He'd always imagined himself settling down with someone... well, normal. Wives were supposed to nag you to be careful, not egg you on and watch your back with a gun.

But maybe she - and Sherlock, bizarrely - were right when they said that he'd seen the dangerous side of her and been attracted to it.

When he'd met Mary, her adventurous side had seemed fantastic. Not as strong as his and Sherlock's, he'd thought, but enough to excite him, to let him feel that he had the perfect balance between the security of domesticity and the freedom to kick arse every now and again.

That was before he'd found out that Mary was on the run from a dark past. Before she'd shot Sherlock. Now he couldn't tell if he was the luckiest man alive, or the stupidest.

"Well?" shouted Mary.

"Just a minute!" John called back.

He crowbarred open the casket. A couple of jacks and the lid pulled off with a groan and the splintering of wood.

He grimaced, but it was a strange smell that had him clambering back to ground level, not, thankfully, an explosion or booby trap.

Mary joined him at the mouth of the grave and put an arm around him like they were site-seeing. They looked down into the coffin at Moriarty's body. It was perfectly groomed and preserved, a little smile on his lips, like he had fallen into a pleasant dream after he shot himself on the roof of St. Bart's and then hadn't aged a day.

John gaped.

Mary snorted. "Trust that man to bloody embalm himself."


	3. Purgatory (Sherlock)

Note: I've used underline instead of strikethrough in this chapter as won't format strikethrough. Please use your imagination :)

* * *

Sherlock hated mornings. There was always that moment when he thought he was in his bed at Baker Street, followed by the moment that he realised the pillow was too lumpy, the mattress too thin and the cover too scratchy. He would remember that not only was he in jail, he was in a small, locked cell, and that he wouldn't be able to leave it for any reason whatsoever until it opened with the buzzer at 6.30am.

That idea sometimes sent an unpleasant flutter of panic through his chest.

Illogical, really. There was absolutely nothing in jail that he wanted to do or see, so, logically speaking, he might as well be locked in the cell as anywhere.

Still...

He curled up into a ball and pulled the covers over his head like a petulant child, one arm tucked under his pillow.

Mondays were the worst day. Having seen John the afternoon before during his weekly half-hour visiting slot, he would dream of him. They were on a case together, or arguing - which oddly, were his favourites - or chasing a criminal and then resting against a wall, laughing, breathless, at the glorious ridiculousness of their lives.

And then he would wake alone on the top bunk to the sound of his cell-mate Big Joe's guttural snoring, in the confines of a box streaked with chipped white-wash, and gripped by the knowledge that there was a whole week before he could see a friendly face again, and even then only in handcuffs and through a safety screen.

His fingers, under his pillow, found the sheet of writing paper that he had hidden there. He removed them again - it was too sentimental to touch it, like it meant something, like it connected him to John.

Besides, he didn't need to feel it or look at it to remember what he'd written in the dark last night, after bed-time - a bloody bed-time! - when the electric went off and the only light in the cell was the green glow of the fire safety light.

He would prefer to text or type or talk of course, but...

_John,_ he'd written.

_I find this sort of stuff difficult too, but I'll give it a go._

_What sort of stuff? Use your eyes, John, isn't it obvious?_

_People who see each other often have a lot to talk about, they talk about their day-to-day lives, anything and everything they've experienced, done or thought about. People who haven't seen each other for a long time struggle - what you did last week isn't big enough, yet what you have done for the past two years is too big._

_I suppose that's why you never asked what happened while I was away._

_I never asked what you did because..._

_Shall I turn it into a narrative, romanticize it like you do for your blogs? You tell me that draws people in. They want to know I'm human, you said, they're interested._

_There is only one person whose interest I want._

_I was in a shabby third-world hotel that had dropped off the star-rating system, staking out Moriarty's second assassin, when I realised that I had friends. The evidence was clear once I thought to look - there were people who I missed and who, when they knew I was alive, had, despite my many social inadequacies, continued to seek my company._

_I also realised that I hadn't risked my reputation and an anonymous death to defeat Moriarty. I could have done that without jumping from St. Bart's roof, had I disregarded the hit-men trailing you, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson._

_I cared, John._

_I cared more about you than I did about myself._

_My initial reaction was disgust._

_I could only imagine what Mycroft would say - one of our few mutual opinions had always been scorn at the ordinary person's weakness for companionship._

_Then I thought some more, as one is apt to when staring through binoculars at an empty building for thirty-six hours straight, and wondered what the hell Mycroft had to do with any of it - as if that insufferable pillock was any indication of how to live one's life. I had friends, I bloody well liked it, I liked them, and Mycroft could take his disdain and shove it up his fat arse._

Sherlock had considered crossing that out, it was embarrassing admitting that he had every considered Mycroft's opinion on anything, but he thought that the insults would make John laugh and so he kept it in.

_On the third night of the stakeout, I had three more realisations. Firstly, my target was more skilled than I expected. He'd realised someone was spying on him and tracked me down. Secondly, even I am not at my best after sixty-four stationery hours without sustenance - he took me by surprise with a gun-barrel to the head. Thirdly, and most importantly, I wasn't just doing this for friendship -_

Sherlock pulled the letter out from under his pillow, ripped it in half, ripped it into quarters, and carried on tearing and tearing until the pieces were so small that the contents were illegible.

He pushed the bits into his pillow case with the rest - the once-flat cushion had doubled in size since he'd started here. At least something practical was coming from his compositions, because it was pointless even thinking about ever sending them to John.

He had thought about telling him of course, all the time when he'd been away, planned hundreds of different scenarios. In all of them, John was waiting for him at Baker St. and was excited, elated, ecstatic when he found out Sherlock was alive.

Naive, stupid.

Instead, John was angry and, worse, he was proposing. To somebody else; a woman.

Later, Sherlock had had a second chance, when John was angry with Mary instead of him. Only, he couldn't stand John's misery, how quiet he was when he visited Sherlock in hospital, every day, without fail. He found himself persuading John to forgive her.

Eugh. Love. It was so irrationally selfless.

And what was it all for? John still didn't seem happy. Yet telling him now would be even more futile, damaging even, because Sherlock couldn't be the one to make him happy. He was in jail and John was straight and in a few weeks, he and Mary would have a baby to revolve their lives around.

The thought made him sick.

John changing nappies and going to children's birthday parties and doing puppet shows with teddy bears and whatever else parents did, too busy to visit Sherlock as he died slowly of the chronic boredom brought on by Flitwick Prison's regulated tedium:

06.30 - the morning alarm went off and the doors unlocked.

06.45 - showers / breakfast.

08.30 - work.

10.30 - 15-minute break.

12.00 - lunch.

13.00 - work.

14.30 - 15-minute break.

17.00 - dinner

18.00 - socialising/recreation or gym/exercise.

20.00 - back to the cell.

21.30 - all the lights go off. Bed time.

06.30 - do it all again.

The jail's daily routine seemed to have been designed specifically to incorporate all of his least favourite things: food, exercise, idle recreation (what exactly was the point of table tennis?), sleep, and wasting his own time doing mind-numbing, low-skill jobs.

Then the morning alarm sounded, the door clicked open and the claustrophobia dissipated. He tossed the covers aside and slid down the bed's ladder saying, "Morning! Lovely day, isn't it?" as if he could see what the weather was like through their windowless, graffiti-etched walls.

Big Joe grunted from the bottom bunk and rolled over to go back to sleep.

"You're right Joe, my mistake," Sherlock said, as if the man had answered. "It's crap again, like every day in this abominable institution."

"Will you shut up!" Joe groaned.

"Probably not," said Sherlock, as he pulled on the maroon jogging pants and baggy grey t-shirt and sweatshirt that was the prisoners' uniform. He clipped his I.D. badge (name, photo, serial number) to his collar with its safe, plastic pincers - he'd learnt quickly to pick his battles and leaving off the badge was more hassle than it was worth.

"See you later," he said as he left the cell.

Joe stuck up a middle finger from under his pillow.

* * *

So, what do you think so far? Please review, it makes all this writing worthwhile :)


	4. Purgatory (John)

John woke with a gasp, Sherlock's name just about on his lips. He'd been dreaming of finding him again, in Magnussen's office, a bullet hole in his chest.

He hated mornings. The relief that came with the end of his nightmares was followed by a reflex-reach for his gun and the realisation that real life wasn't much better than his subconscious. His best friend was in prison for murder, his wife was a murderous assassin, and Moriarty, the murderer of murderers, was probably at large, plotting against them all.

No way that thing in the coffin had been the consulting criminal's corpse - he was a doctor and an amateur pathologist, he knew a dead body when he saw one. As for the details, he had left that to Scotland Yard with an anonymous phone call.

What was certain was that Moriarty was not in his grave, and _that_ was why John kept a gun under his mattress, thank you very much, Sherlock Holmes. Not because of his wife... although he had to admit the thought had crossed his mind.

John couldn't even feel the gun through the bed, so how the hell Sherlock was so sure it was there, John hadn't a clue. John would never cease to be amazed by the man's powers of deduction.

He reached under the bed and touched it to make sure, for reassurance, as if it could wander off in the night and get them all into trouble.

Mary slid an arm around his waist. "Morning," she whispered, her hand wandering up the front of his pyjama shirt, tickling the fine hairs of his stomach.

John kept his eyes shut and shifted a little, mumbling incoherently as if he was still pretty-much asleep.

Mary's hand moved up to his chest, a finger tracing a circle around his nipple.

John made his breathing slow and heavy, slower and heavier, slower and heavier, until it turned into a little snore.

Mary stopped, sighed, pulled her arm away and slid her feet out of the bed, steadied herself with the bedpost and pulled herself up to standing.

"I know that you're awake, you know," she said, as she tottered into the bathroom.

"Wh- what?" said John, rolling over and rubbing his eyes, unconvincingly.

Mary just gave him a disapproving look and closed the door behind her.

He sighed. A glance at the clock told him that he could lie in bed for at least five more minutes before he had to get up and go wallpaper-shopping, and so he would. Might as well make the most of the day off work.

He felt guilty for fobbing Mary off. He would make it up to her later. They'd have fun, decorating the baby's bedroom together, like a normal couple, a normal family. He did love her, of course he loved her. It was just...

He wondered, was it Sherlock's inability to keep his observations to himself that was getting him black eyes, split lips and bruises? Was it just the fact that he was a detective? Was it someone who Sherlock had put away, after revenge? Was it anything to do with Moriarty, was he paying people to harass Sherlock on the inside?

And why did Sherlock have zamasaproxyl on repeat prescription? The drug could be used to treat several conditions - considering his circumstances, depression seemed the most likely in Sherlock's case. Was he depressed? Was asking John, instead of the prison doctor, to do the prescription, his way of asking for help? Of course, prison must be depressing for anyone, let alone someone with Sherlock's low boredom threshold. If only there was something more John could do...

John tutted at himself.

Why the hell was he turning down morning sex to obsess over his best friend's problems? Sherlock had made his bed, so maybe he should get out of John's.

It's just that… he was used to being able to have Sherlock's back. He was used to being able to see him whenever he wanted to, to switch between domesticity with Mary and danger with Sherlock when the mood struck him. He was used to... well, he was just used to Sherlock. As much as anyone could ever be used to Sherlock.

He felt so useless being on the outside.

All he could do was visit Sherlock every week in the hope that it made his sentence a little less unbearable.

It made John's sentence a little less unbearable too.

The toilet flushed and Mary opened the door again while she cleaned her teeth. "What are you thinking about?" she asked between brushes.

"Baby's wallpaper," he said.

"Liar," she teased. "You're worrying about Sherlock."

"That too," he admitted.

She lowered her voice and put on a posh accent: "Worrying is for sentimental idiots who don't have the sense to use their minds productively."

John's mouth quirked upwards. "Terrible impression."

"Then how'd you know it was an impression?"

John chuckled.

Mary climbed back into bed and this time he opened his arms. She cuddled up to him, her head in the crook of his chest, her arm around his waist. He reached down and put a hand on her stretched, flannel-covered belly.

"Dannielle practising her karate this morning?" John asked.

"I think you mean Carrie. And no, she's taken pity on me."

John smiled. Mary put her hand over his. "Daddy's good morals and mummy's ability to kick ass," she joked.

John frowned. But before he could think too much about Mary's lack of self-perceived morality, she proved how evil she was by putting her cold feet on his warm legs.

"Argh!" he exclaimed, scrambling to pull his legs away.

"Wuss," she joked, attacking him with her icy toes.

"Come here, you," he said, laughing, and pulled her into a kiss.

It was these moments that kept them together. Moments when she was just Mary, moments when he could forget that she had done 'wet jobs' for the C.I.A before going 'freelance', that she'd said, 'People like Magnussen should be killed - that's why there are people like me'. People like her.

There was no one like her.

After Afghanistan he'd felt empty. After Sherlock's suicide, he felt full. Full of a churning, sickening, black storm of grief and guilt and anger. Anger at himself and at Sherlock, and then more guilt for being angry at Sherlock, who was dead, dead, dead.

Then there was Mary, and he came back to life.

She was exciting, intelligent, compassionate and funny. A woman who wanted to share his life without consuming it. A woman who took him go-carting on their first date and snuggled on the sofa with a Chinese for their second. A woman he could live with; a woman he could marry.

Still, he couldn't help but ask himself, who was she, really? Was it okay to forget, and were 'moments' good enough?


	5. Consequence

First thing was first. Sherlock went to collect the zamasaproxyl John had prescribed for him from the pharmacy desk. The pharmacist watched him put it in his mouth and swallow, then he had to open wide and show that it was gone.

Once around the corner, he spat out the tablet and tossed it.

Next up was breakfast.

"Piece of shit," spat Gaz, this week's server, from behind the counter.

"Morning Gary," said Sherlock, deadpan.

Jonesy the pasty, podgy and aproned chef, rushed over. "Don't worry Gaz, I'll serve him."

Gaz gave Sherlock another dirty look before moving on to laugh and joke with his next customer. When he was out of earshot, more or less, Jonesy slopped a ladle-full of porridge into a bowl and slid it over towards Sherlock.

"A full... portion?" asked Sherlock.

"More or less," said Jonesy. "Supply issue."

Sherlock frowned.

"Take it or leave it," said Jonesy. He wasn't as soft as he looked.

Sherlock nodded reluctantly, almost imperceptibly, and took the tray.

As he carried his breakfast across the room, another inmate - _Trevor Stone_ noted Sherlock, with a glance at his badge - barged into him and oinked a couple of times.

Stone went over to sit with... Dicky Markham, Thomas Dimes and their gang. Of course.

In for the brutal murder of his cheating girlfriend, Dicky had got away with it for nearly a decade before he had been brought down by Sherlock Holmes powering through cold case files to pass the time, six years ago. Six years was a long time to be stuck in a tedious prison eating bland vegetables and washing other men's bed sheets because a clever detective outsmarted you.

The group all joined in with the pig noises, laughing to themselves, congratulating each other on their self-perceived wit. "Nice black eye, Miss Marple!" shouted Stone, but Dicky shoved him to shut him up at that, and they began arguing amongst themselves. Sherlock just shook his head pityingly, righted his course and continued walking.

He sat down opposite Tutty, yet another meat-head with a smattering of clichéd tattoos, putting his tray down and picking up his spoon.

Sherlock hadn't taken one bite of his porridge before Tutty grinned and reached over to stick his fingers into the bowl, grabbing a handful of the oats in one hand and laughing cruelly. "I'll have some of that."

A couple of others further along the table - Sherlock couldn't see their badges - laughed. "Nice one Tutty," someone said.

"Stick your cock in it, he likes that!" joked another one.

"How do you know? Bender!" joked the first one.

"Fuck off!"

Sherlock was well-used to the rabble by now and ignored it, instead looking at Tutty's porridge-filled hands in disgust, putting down his spoon and turning his attention to his cup of tea instead.

Tutty was fiddling around with something under the table. He leaned over to Sherlock and stuck his fingers in the porridge again.

Sherlock leaned back a little, holding his tea out of the way in one hand. He rolled his eyes and whispered: "Must you be so dramatic, Tutty? I could have just given you my leftovers."

"Where's the fun in that, Shezza?" Tutty laughed and sucked the porridge off his hands. "Gotta show I hate the coppa's guts, or people might suspect you're up to no good like the rest of us."

"Consulting detective," corrected Sherlock, curtly.

"If you're such a detective, what you doing in here?" laughed Tutty. But he was fingering his porridge-coated cocaine baggie under the table - the laughter turned into a frown first; a moment later he was mad.

He knocked Sherlock's tea out of his hand with a swipe. The mug - plastic - bounced, but the lukewarm tea splattered across the floor. Tutty leaned over and grabbed Sherlock by the front of his sweatshirt, hissing, "We agreed a half!"

"Supply issue," Sherlock whispered back, repeating Jonesy's excuse.

He shoved Tutty off and Tutty grabbed him again, even angrier than before.

Then, before it got heated, two of the guards, Chapman and Chapman, Mr. and Mrs., dragged them apart.

"Clear that up, now!" Mr. Chapman ordered, and Tutty reluctantly knelt, head down, eyes up, staring daggers at Sherlock.

"My office, now!" said Mrs. Chapman, yanking Sherlock by the elbow and dragging him through the crowd of disappointed, fight-deprived prisoners.

The door of the office slammed, and Chapman asked, "What was that all about?"

"Nothing," said Sherlock.

"And the black eye?"

"Walked into a door," Sherlock said, drolly.

Chapman eyed him dubiously, but dropped it.

"Saw you talking to Jonesy," she said.

For a moment, Sherlock was worried that she knew about the drugs. He looked her in the eye, ready to deflect her accusations, but then she continued with: "Make a friend on kitchen duty last week, did you?"

"Hardly," said Sherlock, dismissively, disguising his relief.

It was just the usual surprise people who knew him always expressed when he found someone he could talk to without getting punched.

He should have known that she didn't have a clue. Like 99.9% of the population, she walked around with her eyes closed, missing what was blatantly obvious.

On only his second day in jail, Sherlock had deduced that Dicky Markham was the resident drug dealer. On his fourth day, he'd figured out Dicky's source was Jonesy, the chef, who was bringing drugs in through the kitchen deliveries.

Jonesy had been pissed off at first. He preferred the anonymity of working through Dicky, but as he had been caught out anyway, he agreed to sell directly to Sherlock in exchange for his silence. After that, Sherlock bought off him regularly and traded the coke for favours from other inmates.

"I put the good word in for your parole hearing," she said.

"Great," he said. "Now is that all?"

He turned to leave, without waiting for an answer.

"Wait!" said Chapman.

"What?" said Sherlock, irritated. "I already paid."

"Well I need more," said Chapman, nervous but determined.

"In that case, so do I."

"What do you want?" asked Chapman. "I can't put in _another_ good word..."

"I don't know yet," said Sherlock. "You can owe me one."

It was always good to be owed a favour.

She sighed. "Fine. Now will you have a look for me?"

Sherlock nodded, pulled the blind aside with a finger and looked over to Mr. Chapman, the ex-husband, who had left Tutty and was now on the other side of the refectory chatting to the Dr. Carver, the prison's physician and psychologist.

"He's not sleeping with her yet, but he's considering it," said Sherlock.

"How do you know?"

"Obvious," said Sherlock. "You're a flabby under-achiever with anxiety issues and a bad haircut. He's not exactly attractive himself, but she's..."

Sherlock scrutinised the woman's tanned, toned arms and winning smile as she laughed at Mr. Chapman's joke. The woman was clearly stunning, if you liked that sort of thing.

"... not my type, but clearly she's his, look at the body language."

It was obvious to anyone that the pair were flirting.

"I meant how did you know..." Chapman started.

"Know what?" demanded Sherlock, ignoring the woman's discomfort.

The guard whispered: "How do you know he _hasn't_?"

"She values her professionalism. If she'd slept with him, she'd be trying to hide the fact she fancies him." He paused. "She _does_ fancy him though, so..."

"What shall I do?" Chapman asked, utterly miserable.

"Not my area," Sherlock said, "but apparently in these situations, telling people how you feel is the done thing."

"What if he laughs in my face?" he asked.

Sherlock definitely didn't have any advice to offer on facing that particular fear.

"I'm a consulting detective, Chapman, not a consulting agony aunt," he said as he opened the office door.

"You're on floor scrubbing this week, aren't you?" she called after him. "You'll need to start with the rec room, get it done while it's empty, before first break."

Sherlock just shut the door behind him.

"Not if I can help it," he said to himself.

He made his way back over to Tutty, who was sulking over coffee.

"My payment," said Sherlock, standing over him.

"You gotta be kidding!"

"You'll be returning the coke then?"

Tutty swore.

Sherlock just stared, palm extended, until Tutty swore again and rummaged around in his pocket. For a split second, Sherlock thought that the man was going to return the cocaine after all, but thankfully he pulled out his work pass for the week and tossed it onto the table. Sherlock picked it up. Librarian.

"Well?" said Tutty.

"Better than what I got," said Sherlock, tossing Tutty his floor cleaning card.

"Fuck me," said Tutty, "I'm gonna need a few lines just to handle this."

Sherlock just smirked, but Tutty looked deadly serious. "You owe me a quarter, Shez," he warned.

Sherlock pursed his lips, turned heel and walked out of the canteen. It didn't quite have the same effect as with the dramatic swirl of his coat, but it'd have to do.

* * *

So, what do you think so far? Please review! :)


	6. Grind

So, last week he'd been Sherlock Holmes, sous-chef, this week he was Sherlock Holmes, librarian.

He hoped the library wouldn't be as dull as the kitchen.

Sherlock's cooking was so appalling that after he'd done a bit of sub-standard vegetable chopping, Jonesy had insisted that Sherlock just sit and tell him stories about his cases while he did all the work. Otherwise, he'd said, they'd both get their arses kicked by the other inmates when they tasted their burnt stew and dumplings.

The chef-slash-dealer was much friendlier when he was in the confines of his kitchen rather than surrounded by a canteen full of hardened criminals.

Naturally, Sherlock had been delighted to avoid chopping and stirring and, of course, washing up, which he had intentionally cocked-up to avoid, but even he didn't want to just talk about himself for four straight days like he was reciting entries from John's blog. By Monday lunch-time he was bored stiff.

The mystery of where Jonesy's cocaine was coming from might have kept him entertained, but although Jonesy joked that he'd put his whole cocaine system on hold for the week to make sure that the consulting detective couldn't sniff it out, Sherlock had it in minutes of entering the kitchen: Dobson Wholesale.

Bit by bit, he was piecing together all of the prison's secrets. Soon there would be nothing left and it would become even more tedious.

He sighed as he entered the library and reported for duty.

After you had been here a few years and made a good impression in some area or other, you could get a permanent job and escape the rota system - Jonesy the chef was one such person; the librarian, Smith, was another, a rat-faced man with a downy moustache and small eyes sizing him up from behind unfashionable metal-rimmed glasses.

"Holmes," Sherlock said, although he'd been here several times before as a customer.

Smith studied Sherlock's work pass slowly, then looked up: "I was expecting Tutty."

"Change of plan."

"Ok," said Smith tonelessly.

He opened a drawer and placed the card carefully on a pile, then closed the door again.

"Do you know the library cataloguing system?" Smith asked.

Sherlock nodded.

"Your job is to file returned books away and check the books are in the right order. If you come across a book that is in the wrong place, you..."

"Put it in the right place. Got it," said Sherlock impatiently, grabbing a pile of books from the returns trolley and disappearing amongst the shelves.

He could not believe this was his life. Taking orders from a moron in exchange for tokens so he could buy phone calls and visiting time and paper to write letters to his best friend and then tear them up into little pieces and stuff them in his pillow so that nobody could read them, least of all said friend.

As it turned out though, the library job wasn't as bad as he had expected, although the best he could say of it was that it was slightly less tedious than his previous jail jobs.

He found himself doing the filing correctly in the hope that if the jail's inmates wanted a book, they would be able to find it and become slightly more intelligent, possibly providing a bit more of a challenge should they ever commit another crime in the future.

Then he hid what looked like dumbed-down novels by pushing them to the back and pulled forward books on logic, Sudoku puzzles and psychology to push them in the right direction.

He bet John would find that funny. John always got his sense of humour. Well, not always, but more often than anybody else did.

He paused in his filing, a small smile on his face.

"Alright cocksucker," came a voice, ruining the moment.

It was Dicky Markham towering over him and smirking.

Sherlock had been kneeling to file a book on a lower shelf and stood up quickly to re-balance the power somewhat. But no matter what he did, the other man was just as tall as the consulting detective and twice as wide, as if he had spent his entire incarceration doing push-ups and lifting weights at the gym.

"Shouldn't you be at work?" Sherlock asked.

"Couldn't concentrate at work," Dicky said conversationally. "Something's been bothering me. Thought the library might be a nice quiet, lonely place to think without anyone disturbing me, not even the guards."

"Must you insist on feigning social niceties in an attempt to appear sinister?" Sherlock complained casually, despite his racing heartbeat and the tension building in his chest. "It's so clichéd."

"Must you talk like a fucking dictionary?" snapped Dicky, grabbing Sherlock by the front of his sweatshirt.

Sherlock ducked out of his grasp, but walked straight into his new friend Trevor Stone, who shoved him back towards Dicky. Behind Stone stood Thomas Dimes, arms crossed, a skinnier and altogether less physically-threatening, but still vicious, criminal who Sherlock had put away for shooting his next-door neighbour, four years ago.

"Get out of my way," Sherlock said, pushing Stone aside and striding past him.

But Dicky followed, grabbed him and spun him around.

"I'll tell you what's been bothering me Holmes. A lack of symmetry. There's a big fucking word for you. One black eye, one white eye, gotta have you matching, haven't we?"

He threw Sherlock into the bookshelf, but it was screwed solidly into the floor, as if its disruption was to be expected and prevented. Sherlock just hit the shelves and staggered, knocking books onto the floor.

Smith came over and stood ramrod straight, a few metres away from them. "Quiet in the library, please," he said, near monotone.

"For God's sake Smith," Sherlock shouted. "Make yourself useful and call a guard."

Smith just looked distressed. "Shhh! Library's must be silent so people can read in peace."

Stone just laughed at him.

Sherlock took that moment of distraction to swing at Dicky, getting a hit in and splitting the other man's lip. Dicky cried out in surprise more than anything, but before Sherlock could swing another punch, Stone had grabbed him from behind and started laughing.

"Deduce your way out of that one, Miss Marple," hissed Thomas. "I deduce that you're outnumbered and about to get your arse kicked."

Sherlock struggled against Stone, but the man had a surprisingly strong grip and was twisting his arms upwards, sending a shooting pain through them all the way to Sherlock's bent-back wrist.

"Quiet please," Smith reminded them, anxiously.

"You quiet!" spat Thomas.

Dicky was rubbing his lip and looking at the blood on his thumb. He wiped it across a couple of books and then knocked them off the shelf and onto the floor.

"I'd just finished filing those," Sherlock quipped.

"Please put the books back where they came from," said Smith. "If you're not sure, please hand them to a librarian."

"If you say so," said Dicky, dangerously.

He picked up one of the hardback books from the floor and threw it at Sherlock. It hit him in the stomach. Not too painful, but he definitely felt it. The next one got him in the forehead, which stung a little more. The third one got him in the chest, right on his gunshot scar, which sent him gasping for breath.

Stone shoved the consulting detective off of him and onto the floor, into the corner. The jolt sent another sharp, sickening wrench through his chest and Sherlock shielded it with his arms and panted, trying to catch his breath and calm the dizziness in his head. He wasn't sure if it was a physical reaction to the sudden lack of air, maybe a skipped heartbeat, or if it was a mental reaction to the flashback of getting shot by Mary. Hopefully the former, he didn't want to add delayed PTSD to his list of problems.

Either way, the incapacity would leave him vulnerable to attack for at least thirty seconds and so he braced himself.

The three criminals grabbed book after book from the shelves and threw them at him hard and at close range. Not all of them really hurt, but the constant barrage was rather disorientating and covering his chest with his arms left his head exposed.

Stone, who Sherlock had never done anything to, seemed to have taken on Dicky and Dimes' revenge as his own and doubled it for his own entertainment. He punched Sherlock a few times in the ribs, shouting abuse as he did so. "Fucking fag, pig, tosser!"

Dicky shoved Stone out the way and whacked Sherlock in the head with a hard-back Encyclopedia Britannica.

"Do you mind!" Sherlock protested, dizzily.

But Dicky just laughed and hit him again. The third time, everything went black.


	7. Elucidation

John hung up his mobile. "Lestrade," he told Mary, although she'd probably guessed from overhearing his half of the conversation.

"Any update?" she asked, from where she sat painting cartoon animals on what they had decided would be the 'feature wall' of the baby's bedroom.

John grabbed the roll of wallpaper and started cutting another piece. "Wants to know if I've heard anything about someone digging up Moriarty's grave."

Mary giggled. "Oh yeah? Have you?"

"No. Weird, isn't it? Who'd be crazy enough to do that?" he grinned, slapping paste onto the back of the wallpaper. "Apparently there's a life-size, Tussaud's-standard Moriarty waxwork in the coffin."

Mary stopped painting for a moment to look round at him, surprised. "It's a waxwork?"

"Apparently so."

"Aw, bless."

"Bless? Not a sentiment usually associated with Moriarty," said John, as he climbed up the ladder and started pasting the paper onto the wall.

"Well, clearly he was lonely and made it for company," she said.

John chuckled.

"Reckon he had it sat in an armchair at home, to chat to after a hard day's work."

John laughed out loud at that image. "Don't make me laugh while I'm up the ladder," he said, climbing back down to ground level.

The half-done paper hung off at an awkward angle but stuck for the time being and he moved over to squeeze her shoulder. "Not bad for our first time, really," said John, looking round and admiring what they'd done so far.

Over the past few weeks they'd cleared all the junk out of their spare room and either given it away to charity shops, thrown it away, or integrated it into the rest of the house, leaving a nice little space for them to do up for the baby. John had papered one-and-a-half walls so far in a soft peach and Mary had been painting pictures on the third, opposite where they planned to put the cot - and later, a child-sized bed.

This morning he'd been nothing but miserable, but now he had a nice, warm fuzzy feeling. He could hardly believe that in a few weeks there would be a baby - his baby, his blood - in this flat, and that he (and Mary) would be responsible for keeping her alive and well and happy, and bringing her up to be a decent human being.

Mary put the last stripe on her zebra and joined him in looking at the room-in-progress with a smile. "Doreen's going to love it."

"Doreen!" snorted John.

"It's my great aunt's name," she said, faking offence.

"Oooh, a clue for my Mary Watson case file."

She rolled her eyes.

"What about Harriet?" John suggested.

"We are not naming the baby after your alcoholic sister!" Mary insisted. "You don't even like her - she didn't even come to the wedding."

"I like her! I just... well... at least I've seen her in the past... year."

"Who says I haven't seen Aunt Doreen?"

And the fuzzy feeling faded.

Because, okay, he'd chosen to throw that pen drive in the fire and focus on their future, but... did she really have an Aunt Doreen, did she visit her in secret so that John couldn't figure out any details about her family, her identity, her real name?

"Joke," said Mary. "You've heard of them? They're supposed to make you laugh?"

He smiled, but his eyes weren't in it.

Dammit, he wished that he could put it all behind him.

And so he reminded himself again that he had secrets in his own past. It's not like he'd said, Will you marry me? And by the way, I shot a cabbie in the head for Sherlock Holmes, and I shot another man in Afghanistan and it was self-defence but I still wonder what his story was - why he was fighting, if talking could've changed his mind, what his favourite song was, what he would've chosen as his last meal, and who he left behind.

No, he hadn't told her everything. And he loved her. God, he loved her. There was no other woman like her. And yet -

Who had she killed? Because okay, he'd killed, but only other killers and only in self-defence or to save someone else's life, Sherlock's life. He would never just kill because he could. There was a line - had she crossed it? 'People like Magnussen should be killed,' she'd said, 'That's why there are people like me.'

"Is there an Aunt Doreen?" he asked.

"John..." Mary said, quietly.

"No, no, you're right. I said I didn't want to know and I don't."

"I don't have an Aunt Doreen," she said.

"Oh," said John. "Neither do I."

He laughed, but it was a desperate laugh, because his wife was a pregnant assassin and laughing about it was easier than knowing what to do or what to say. Mary just looked at him, paintbrush in one hand, forehead creased with concern.

"I don't know what you want me to do, John," she said.

He was laughing harder now and the harder he laughed, the sadder Mary became. She reached out to hold him, but he put his hand up, keeping her at arm's length.

"I just..." he said, eventually, "I just want you to be Mary Watson."

"I am," she said.

And he knew she meant it. But he also knew that it wasn't strictly true.

She was A.G.R.A., whoever that was.

Where did A.G.R.A. draw the line on who was 'bad', who 'deserved' to be killed, and when it was 'justified' rather than 'murder'?

Had she only killed murderers? Terrorists?

Had there been enough evidence against them?

Had she questioned what her targets had done to deserve to be killed, or had she just followed orders, killing on demand for someone else's unknown agenda?

Magnussen had said 'freelance' too.

Freelance. A.G.R.A… Mary… who had she killed off her own back?

Before John could think about what he was doing, he was grabbing his coat.

"Where are you going?" Mary asked, sadly.

"Out!" he said firmly, as he slammed the door behind him.

* * *

Please comment and let me know what you think so far :)


	8. Stuffed

Sherlock could hear muffled voices.

"... where is..."

"... Jack Tutty... scrubbing..."

"... Smith, for crying out loud!"

Awareness increased; light didn't. For a moment he though he'd gone blind, then he noticed several things. The damp smell. The cold floor. The stuffy air. The cardboard box at his finger tips. The fact the voices were muffled.

The prison's library storage cupboard.

He sat up and his head spun. He steadied himself against the shelving that was apparently to his left. Bruised ribs, cuts to the face and head, disorientated, confused, dizzy, headache. The fact that he'd been knocked unconscious.

Concussion.

The door unlocked and opened and he grimaced against the light.

Mrs. Chapman, the guard, was standing outside with another woman... visitor's pass, smart-casual suit-jacket jeans combo, digital camera round the neck, ID badge in pocket... detective. Surely he hadn't been unconscious so long he'd been reported missing?

Smith the librarian hovered nervously behind them, muttering to himself.

No, no, of course not, not a missing person. This was much better, _much_ better.

"Who's the victim?" Sherlock asked.

Chapman and the detective shared a look.

"Mr. Holmes?" the detective said. "I'm detective Turner. I need to ask you where you were at 9.45."

"I'm a suspect?" Sherlock said. "Fascinating."

"Fascinating?" Mrs. Chapman said, incredulous. Turner's brow furrowed.

Sherlock slowly pulled himself to his feet. Head rush. He put a hand to the door frame and closed his eyes a moment. When his head had cleared, he opened his eyes again.

"What are the facts?" he asked.

"Just answer my question," Turner asked.

"I don't know," Sherlock said. "I don't even know what time it is now. I've been unconscious since about 9.30am."

"That's convenient," said Chapman.

Sherlock shot her a look. "You think I murdered somebody, then beat myself up and ran back here to lock myself in a cupboard?" he asked, sardonically.

"I think Jonesy put up a fight!" said Chapman, angry.

"Jonesy?" said Sherlock, softly, taken by surprise somehow.

"Samuel Jones was stabbed at 9.45 Mr. Holmes," said detective Turner. "I ran the prints against the prison records and there was a perfect match."

"Me," said Sherlock.

"Exactly. What do you say to that?" Turner asked.

"I say I'm being framed..." Sherlock said, and then he grinned "... and this is the most exciting thing that's happened all month! I need to see the crime scene, please tell me you haven't processed it and packed it up yet."

Turner's brow furrowed.

"You're delusional, Holmes," said Chapman. "You're going to maximum security prison, just you and four walls, twenty-four hours a day. The evidence..."

"It was a kitchen knife, yes?" asked Sherlock.

"Yes!" said Chapman. "And if you're being framed, how come you know so much about it?"

"If I was the killer, would I admit that I knew?" asked Sherlock. "Think! I was on kitchen duty last week. On the Monday morning, before Jonesy declared me culinarily incompetent, I used a knife to chop an onion or two. Somebody took the knife for this very purpose.

Ask a doctor to confirm my concussion and bruised ribs, then check Jonesy's fists - they haven't touched me. Ask Smith about how he's been standing outside the cupboard since 9.30 panicking about the disruption to his precious library routine."

Smith, who was still muttering, looked up. "Pardon?"

"What are you even doing in the library?" asked Chapman.

"Filing," said Sherlock, intentionally avoiding admitting to swapping his job card with Tutty that morning.

"And who were your assailants?" Turner asked.

"No matter that. I'm sure Smith will suffice as an alibi," said Sherlock.

Turner turned to Chapman. "I highly doubt Mr. Holmes is the killer. An alibi, no motive, the crime that put him in here was a once-off in the line of duty, he's put a request in for a parole hearing. It doesn't add up, Chapman. I'll take a statement of course, but..."

Sherlock took a step forward and staggered, falling straight into Turner. Her camera went flying. "Oh, sorry!" he exclaimed, and they both reached for it at the same time. Somehow, Sherlock knocked her out the way with his unsteady scramble to his feet and dropped the camera again. He dropped to his knees to pick it up a second time and flicked it on, holding his head for a moment, not-quite feigning so much as playing-on his dizziness.

He managed to see a couple of crime scene photographs before Turner cleared her throat and stuck a hand out.

He handed the camera back to her, reluctantly.

"Chapman," said Turner. "Perhaps you could escort Mr. Homes to the hospital wing?"


	9. Stitched

As Sherlock and Chapman passed the canteen on the way to the infirmary, Sherlock ducked out of her grasp and under the red tape. The place was full of police officers and forensics, going over everything with a fine toothcomb. Now if he could just get over to the kitchen...

But he couldn't exactly blag it in his prison tracksuit. A police officer was on him almost immediately, his colleagues not far behind.

"Out!" the man yelled, and between him and Chapman, the concussion and aching ribs, Sherlock was back in the hallway within seconds, the door slammed in his face.

A wave of dizziness rushed through his head. He closed his eyes and put a hand to the wall to steady himself.

"Not gonna swoon on me are you Holmes?" asked Chapman, with mild concern.

Sherlock waited till the stars turned to the black of the back of his eyelids. Took a deep breath.

"Hardly," he said, as he straightened.

No access to the crime scene then. He would be solving a murder from photographs alone and with a concussion to boot. This was certainly going to be a challenge… but perhaps the challenge would keep him sane.

"Can you walk," she asked?

"Of course I can walk."

And as they walked, he thought about the crime scene pictures.

Jonsey had been wearing his chef's uniform, face down on the lino. Stabbed in the back multiple times, struggled, knife pulled out and tossed beside him as he bled.

Scenario 1: someone snuck up on Jonesy. Someone who was good at being very quiet.

Scenario 2: Jonesy trusted the killer enough to turn his back. But why would he turn his back? Either from anger, or to get something. He was facing the counter, so it could have been the latter. Was he reaching for a weapon to defend himself?

There had been a rolling pin on the counter. Thick enough to hit someone over the head with. A possibility.

Was it all just a set-up to frame Sherlock? Or had someone demanded Jonesy hand over the coke stash… and then, as they saw the chef reaching for his rolling pin, panicked and stabbed him in the back?

But panic didn't usually lead to such brutal, multiple stabbings - that suggested some pre-meditation and anger from the killer.

Anger for who though – Jonesy, or Sherlock?

"Holmes!"

Sherlock opened his eyes.

He was lying on the floor of the small, bright-white, three-bed hospital infirmary, looking up into Chapman's frowning face.

As his vision cleared, he realized that the concussion had apparently got the better of him. For a moment. He edged up onto an elbow, allowing his head to get used to the movement lest he pass out again. He pushed himself higher up to sitting, gasping as a sharp pain shot through his ribs.

Chapman grabbed his arm and guided him into a chair. No doubt she wanted him seated before the doctor arrived, worried that she would be in trouble for allowing a concussed prisoner to walk around until he fainted.

He closed his eyes for a moment as he sat, head pounding, ribs throbbing.

"Sorry," Chapman said. "About earlier. For a minute, I really thought -"

Sherlock waved off her concern. "It's fine. The evidence did appear to be pointing at me. To an inferior mind, at least. Whoever did this set it up pretty well."

"Okay," she said. "Um, thanks."

They waited in silence for a few moments, Sherlock sitting, his aching head propped up on one hand, Chapman standing guard at his side, the clock ticking.

"You owe me a favour," Sherlock suddenly realised.

"I said I was sorry," Chapman protested.

"Not that," said Sherlock. "I deduced for you earlier."

Chapman frowned, remembering. "What do you want?" she asked, reluctantly.

"Get me access to the case file."

"I won't even have access to that!" she protested.

"The filing room."

"I could lose my job," said Chapman.

"Some files then," said Sherlock.

She hesitated.

"Do you want the murder solved or not?" snapped Sherlock.

"Of course, but..."

"Well, it's settled then."

Sherlock took a leaflet on drug abuse from the noticeboard, jotted down a list of names on the back and handed it to Chapman.

"Roy Sampson, Carl Merryweather, Philip Clarke... " she said, reading the first few names on the scrap of notepaper. "Why these particular prisoners?"

But Sherlock wasn't going to incriminate himself by telling her it was a list of Dicky Markham - and therefore Jonesy's - cocaine customers. And Dicky, Dimes and Stone themselves of course - after shoving Sherlock in a cupboard, the three would have had just enough time to get to the kitchen and murder Jonesy.

Sherlock had three theories about a motive:

1) It was about framing Sherlock.

2) It was about Jonesy's drugs.

3) It was about Jonesy's drugs _and_ framing Sherlock.

A look through the prisoners' personal files should help him to find similar M.O.s in their pre- and post-prison crimes, or any links to himself or to Jonesy.

It made sense to start with the coke addicts and their dealer.

"They seem suspicious," said Sherlock, vaguely.

Chapman looked dubious again. "Any link between them?"

"Not that I know of," Sherlock lied.

"If you know something, Holmes..."

"Will you give me the files or not?"

She looked angry, but she acquiesced. "Fine. But if anyone finds out, you broke in and stole them yourself."

They were interrupted by the arrival of Dr. Carver, who walked in and smiled.

Chapman just gave the doctor a dirty look and left, "See you later, Holmes."

Dr. Carver looked puzzled.

"She thinks you're having sex with her husband," explained Sherlock.

Carver blushed.

"Don't worry, I know that you're not."

Carver's blush only got stronger. "Let's focus on you, shall we?" she said.

She started by cleaning up the cuts on his face. He twitched a little at the sting of the antiseptic on the lump on his head.

"What happened?" she asked.

"Fell down the stairs," Sherlock quipped.

"I don't think so, Mr. Holmes," she said.

"If you already know what happened, why ask?"

She tutted, but got straight back to business, asking if she was right in thinking he was favouring his ribs. He nodded, allowing her to check them and ask questions - was he having difficulty breathing (no), did it hurt when he did x, y and z (yes, yes and yes).

Lastly, she examined his head, looked into his eyes, diagnosed bruised ribs and a concussion and prescribed forty-eight hours rest.

"Can't you fix it?" asked Sherlock.

"It will fix itself," said Carver. "You just have to wait."

"I'm too busy to wait."

"Hmm," said Carver, flicking through his medical file. "You're on zamasaproxyl..."

"And?"

"You know, you don't have to get your doctor on the outside… Dr. Watson… to keep doing the prescriptions. If you start seeing me regularly then I can do it."

"Seeing you?" said Sherlock, with a suspicious tone.

"Yes."

"As a G.P. or as a psychologist?"

"Some therapy would do you good, Mr. Holmes," she said.

"I have my therapy, doctor," he said. "Haven't you heard? Somebody's trying to frame me for murder!


	10. Interrogation

Lestrade sat down opposite Sherlock in Flitwick Prison's interrogation room and tried not to let his reaction show on his face. Probably futile - Sherlock would pick up the slight flinch that had twitched at his features when he saw the state of the him.

Always slender, the consulting detective now looked gaunt, and the casual attire that was the prisoners' only clothing option meant he had lost the impact of his snappy dress-sense. The handcuffs, holding Sherlock's wrists together, attached to a ring on the table in front of him, only added to the impression of vulnerability.

The cuts and bruises were the worst, of course, a vivid and ugly contrast against his sun-deprived skin. A yellowing days-old black eye contrasted with fresher red cuts, suggesting that whatever had happened to cause the injuries was not a one-off incident.

Lestrade waved at the restraints. "Are these really necessary?" he complained in the direction of the security camera.

"Save your breath Lestrade," said Sherlock, without a hint of gratitude.

Lestrade couldn't help but be pleased that even if he looked like a teenage GBH victim he at least sounded like his usual arrogant self.

Sherlock continued: "It's standard procedure for your own safety. Can't have the dangerous murderer at liberty in the presence of the poor, unarmed detective."

"Oh please," said Lestrade. "What are they feeding you in here? You couldn't fend off a kitten right now."

"Or three convicted killers, apparently," Sherlock dead-panned. He bit his lip, clearly embarrassed, but Lestrade supposed that there was no hiding the fact he had taken a beating and so he'd broken the ice and faced the topic head on.

"Jesus." Lestrade frowned. "I'll have a word - no, a _talking to_ \- with the gaffer. You're one of us, they should be -"

Sherlock shook his head. Then froze. Screwed his eyes shut with a grimace. Clearly the movement hadn't agreed with him.

"Are you…" Lestrade started.

But Sherlock waved off Lestrade's concern within the limited movement of his cuffed hands, took a deep breath and opened his eyes.

"The last thing I need," Sherlock said, "Is the guards keeping an eye on me twenty-four seven. Let's just get on with the case."

Lestrade sighed. There was no reasoning with the man.

"What do you want?" asked Sherlock.

"What do I...? You called me!"

"Did I? Oh yes, I did, didn't I. Well, there's been a murder since then and I'm a bit busy so let's hurry this along, shall we."

Lestrade shook his head irritably. "So, which case is it? I was told that..." He pulled out a scrap of paper with a handwritten phone message on it "… 'Sherlock Holmes has some information for me and is willing to make a deal.' Does this have anything to do with the anonymous tip-off I got about visiting Moriarty's grave?"

Sherlock's face was a picture of false innocence. "Moriarty's grave?"

"Don't mess with me Sherlock, do you know something?"

"I've been a bit out of the loop lately, but do feel free to fill me in on everything."

He leaned forward with anticipation.

"Okay, I'll bite," said Lestrade. "As John no doubt told you, I couldn't get the exhumation order for Moriarty's corpse like you suggested. Then I get a tip off that _somebody_ had dug up the grave the old-fashioned way. I showed up with back-up and found myself looking straight into the bastard's grinning face."

"He was waiting for you at the graveyard?" asked Sherlock, sitting up straighter.

"In a manner of speaking," said Lestrade. "Inside the coffin there was a life-size, Moriarty-shaped wax-work. Very creepy."

"Hmm," said Sherlock, sinking back. "What's the point of that?"

"I don't know," said Lestrade, exasperated. "The man's nuts, isn't he? He just likes playing games, messing with our heads."

"Yes," agreed Sherlock. "But there's usually a bit more to it - a long game, a threat, a clue. This just seems... silly."

"Well, one things for certain," said Lestrade. "He's definitely not dead."

"Obviously."

Lestrade pulled out his notebook and pen and settled back into his chair. "Right then. What's this information you have for me? You know I can't do a deal myself, but I can pass it onto... what?"

Sherlock was smirking at him.

Realisation hit Lestrade. "You don't have any information, do you?"

"Not as such."

Lestrade thumped the table. "Jesus, Sherlock! Did you get me all the way down here to _get_ information? From me? About Moriarty? It's a two-hour round trip - why couldn't you just call?"

"Today's Monday."

"So?"

"Phone call days are Tuesdays and Fridays."

Lestrade rubbed his head in frustration. When a man faked his own death or went into prison, you really started to forget how annoying they could be. Until you saw them again that is - then you remembered with a bloody vengeance.

But he wouldn't see Sherlock again for a while, so he tried to calm himself down and at least have a civil conversation, telling himself there was no real harm done, he'd been planning on visiting at some point anyway and was now saved the effort of arranging it.

Lestrade heaved a deep sigh, then asked: "So, how's prison?"

"Unspeakably dull."

Lestrade hesitated, then finally asked: "Why _did_ you do it, Sherlock? Murder? You're better than that - we could've got him by the book."

Of course, Sherlock couldn't explain that Magnussen had something on Mary. That he'd threatened to call people who wanted to hurt Mary, kill Mary - and John's baby inside her - and tear John's whole life down.

And that John, who could snap that snake's neck in a heartbeat, was standing there letting himself be flicked in the face, asking Sherlock what to do. Relying on Sherlock to think of something to make it stop. Because if he could be flicked in the face, in the eye, with an expression of utter fury and defeat, and do nothing, then he was Magnussen's bitch, and John Watson would never be anyone's bitch if Sherlock Holmes could help it.

"It was the only way to stop him," said Sherlock simply.

"The easiest way, more like," Lestrade complained. "And look where it's got you."

"Hmmm."

They sat in silence for a moment.

Lestrade coughed awkwardly, fiddling with something in his coat, and Sherlock looked up with interest. "You've brought a case file with you?"

"If you don't mind," said Lestrade.

"Like I said, prison is tedious. Hand it over."

Lestrade passed it across. "Sorry, but I'll have to keep your name out of it."

"I'm not interested in _credit_."

He didn't add that he would have insisted on anonymity himself - the last thing he needed was _more_ criminals he'd put away showing up in Flitwick Prison.

He flicked through the file as best he could with his restricted hands, waving away Lestrade's attempt at assistance.

"So, have you seen much of John?" Lestrade asked as Sherlock read.

"Every Saturday - visiting day," said Sherlock. "And I call him on phone call days."

"Call me some time, if you like," suggested Lestrade.

"Why?"

Lestrade tutted, but he was used to Sherlock and took it in his stride. "Bet John's excited about finishing up the baby's bedroom today, isn't he? I met him and Mary for a drink last week and it was all they talked about."

Sherlock frowned. "He hasn't mentioned it to me."

"Oh right," said Lestrade. "I guess he thought you wouldn't be interested, what with it being unrelated to Moriarty."

Sherlock bristled. "I'm not a one-track record, Lestrade. I can talk about more than just Moriarty. For example, for the sake of politeness, I frequently feign interest in your personal life and general well-being."

"No you don't!"

They sat in silence for a while, while Sherlock sulked. Lestrade didn't interrupt it or try to jostle him out of it - he knew Sherlock's moods well enough by now.

Eventually, as predicted, Sherlock broke. "It was the gardener."

"What? How do you know they even...?"

"They're busy professionals with a semi-detached house and a well-trimmed hedges, of course they have a gardener."

"What makes you think he's the killer?"

Sherlock sighed. "I dread to think of the state of London with me locked up in here and only Scotland Yard out there to fight crime."

Lestrade bristled. "Are you going to tell me or not?"

"Take another look at the murder weapon."

"What will I find?"

"You're the detective, you figure it out."

"Fine," said Lestrade, tucking the file back into his coat.

They sat in silence for a minute, frowning.

As the clock ticked, Lestrade became increasingly aware that he would be leaving soon, and Sherlock would be staying in the prison, trapped behind bars with hundreds of hardened criminals who had it in for him. A detective in prison, even an unofficial one, was always a target. He wouldn't like to be in Sherlock's shoes.

"The assault," he said, finally. "Let me help."

"There is something you can do."

"What?"

"I've requested a parole hearing..."

"This early?"

Sherlock just looked him in the eye and stared.

"I suppose it's worth a shot. I'll make a call, put in a good word for you."

Sherlock nodded his thanks.

"Anything else?" Lestrade asked, looking at the state of Sherlock's face. "Anything more... immediate?"

Sherlock nodded. "Tell Mrs. Chapman that I traded my help for an extra phonecall."

"Who you going to call?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock didn't answer, just looked down at his hands like a moody child. Of course, Lestrade knew who he wanted to call, and so in the end he just nodded. "When?"

"Tonight."

Sherlock stood, wincing at the jolt to his ribs, and called for the guard.

"Off so soon?" asked Lestrade. "I've only just got here!"

"I've got a concussion, Lestrade. I think I'm entitled to lie down with a bit of light reading."

That's if you could call twenty confidential prisoner files, slipped under his mattress by Chapman, 'light'.


	11. Stealth

John couldn't believe he was doing this.

Only, he could believe it. Ever since he'd met Sherlock Holmes, anything seemed bloody possible. And so there he was, breaking and entering at Tussaud's factory, in the middle of the night. At least, he thought, if he was arrested, he might get sent to prison and see his best friend a bit more. He'd have to kill someone too of course, to be in with a chance of getting into the same jail - hopefully a security guard would get in his way.

And he stopped his inappropriate chain of thought in its tracks. Even if he was a murderer - which he wasn't - he wouldn't willingly go to jail just to see more of Sherlock. No matter how much he bloody missed him. Which wasn't _that _much. Just the normal amount that you'd miss a best friend, that's all.

Okay, so maybe the way he felt about Sherlock was a little bit stronger than what you would normally feel for your best friend. He'd never felt this way about Sam Dobson at university, for example. But then Sam Dobson didn't keep dying and nearly dying and getting imprisoned all the time - you couldn't help but realise how much someone meant to you when you lost them on a regular basis. When you grieved, you let yourself feel love for a person, and that didn't just go away when they came back to life.

Platonic love of course. Platonic love.

He shook his head to clear it and crept down the long corridor, lit only by the eerie green of the fire exits, scanning the doors and ignoring workshops, storage, toilets, kitchen...

His phone buzzed in his pocket, making him jump.

Withheld number.

"Hello?" he whispered as he answered.

"What are you doing?" said Sherlock. "Have you broken into a museum?"

John grinned at the sound of his best friend's voice. "What? No, it's the waxwork factory."

Sherlock grunted, irritably. "Similar acoustics. If you wanted to find out who commissioned the waxwork for Moriarty, you could've just hacked their computer system."

"I don't know how to do that!" John retorted, exasperated.

"He won't have left any trace of himself in the paperwork."

"Well it's the only lead we have," John said, voice raising to a normal volume as he got angry. He forced it back down into a whisper. "How have you got Monday phone access in the middle of the night, anyway? Tell me you're not causing trouble in there Sherlock, or you'll never get out."

"Of course not, John."

"Really?"

"Yes, I'm using your law-abiding, rule-following behaviour as a standard."

John swore, but he was laughing a moment later. Sherlock joined in.

"You might as well have a look now you're in there," Sherlock conceded.

"Good to know, because I think I've found the admin office," John told him.

The door was unlocked and John let himself in. Just a standard office - desk, filing cabinets, computers, shelves or folders, stacks of paper, a photocopier.

"I'm in," he told Sherlock.

"Look for Richard Brook, not James Moriarty."

"Obviously," said John. "So, what did you ring for?" He began looking along the folder labels: A-C, D-G...

"Because I have no means of texting?" Sherlock replied.

"And...?"

"Can't I just ring up my best friend for a chat?" Sherlock asked.

John tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder and picked up the A-C file. He started flicking through looking for 'Brook, Richard'.

"Not from prison, in the middle of the night, while I'm breaking and entering."

"I..." Sherlock hesitated. "I wanted to know how the baby's room's going?"

"Really? Um... yeah, great, I suppose."

He didn't want to tell Sherlock about the argument. Telling Sherlock he was happy with the woman who'd shot him felt like a betrayal, but telling anyone he wasn't happy with her felt like wrenching his heart out of his chest.

"Er, elephants, puppies and polar bears, that sort of thing," said John. He flicked through the B-section of the file.

"That's... an interesting combination of animals," said Sherlock, with restraint.

John put the folder back onto the shelf and moved over to the filing cabinet.

"Yeah," John agreed vaguely.

He pulled open a drawer and gaped at the overwhelming amount of paperwork that confronted him inside. Luckily, the admin assistant of the office was anal enough to use multi-coloured file dividers.

On the downside, they had clearly memorised what sort of papers were in each drawer as the outside of the cabinet was unlabeled. John would have to open each of the fifteen drawers and sift through until he found what looked like invoices. He sighed.

"So, uh…" Sherlock started. He cleared his throat. "I um… I started a job in the library today…"

"Oh right," said John vaguely, most of his attention on the job in front of him.

"It... erm. Well, it didn't really go as well as..."

"Yes!" John interrupted.

There was a long pause as John walked his fingers through the files.

"You found the invoices?" Sherlock asked finally.

"Wait," said John. "Weren't you about to tell me something?"

"It's not important," said Sherlock, quietly. "The files?"

"Yes," said John. "Damn! They're filed by client, not by the person in the waxwork... Hmm, there's a lot of people out there having private waxworks done. Little weird."

"If she's organised enough to file by client, there's probably a cross-reference index."

Then Sherlock roared down the phone in frustration, startling John into dropping the mobile and the file he'd been holding. He scrambled to pick up the mobile again, still fiddling with it as he near-shouted: "What? What is it?"

"It's just maddening in here," Sherlock ranted. "There are so many idiots everywhere. All the time. I can't get away from them, John. And there's a rigid schedule. There's a bed time. A _bed time_!"

"It's prison Sherlock, it's supposed to be crap," said John.

But he sat down on the rough carpet, his back against the desk, abandoning the case for the time being, just to listen.

It was a relief, really, for John. All this time he'd been worrying about Sherlock's state of mind in prison, whether the zamasaproxyl prescription was his way of telling John how unhappy he was, yet all Sherlock had talked about was Moriarty.

Now he was opening up, letting John listen.

"And you're out there..." Sherlock started. "And Moriarty…"

"I'm okay, Sherlock," said John.

"I know you're okay," Sherlock snapped. "It's…just…so…. dull."

"Did you call Mycroft?"

Sherlock sighed. "Even if I did apologise, Mycroft isn't God, John. I shot a man in the head in cold blood in front of ten witnesses."

"Yeah, but he wasn't a very nice man," said John.

Sherlock laughed, despite himself, and moments later they were both at it. They giggled for a few minutes and then lapsed into a comfortable silence, just listening to each other's breathing on the other end of the receiver.

It was Sherlock who broke it first: "Did you find the Brook invoice yet?

It was then that the alarm went off. "Shit!" John yelled and hung up, leaving a frustrated Sherlock holding a phone with a dead tone blaring into his ear.

* * *

Argh! What's going to happen to John? How is Sherlock going to handle the suspense of not knowing? Thanks for all the comments so far. I reply to them all, but some people are guests so I'm thanking y'all here instead. I like comments by the way. More comments please. :)


	12. Freaked

Sherlock grabbed Mrs. Chapman by the lapels of her shirt and demanded: "I need another phone call. Now!"

Chapman, shoved him off, fueled by pure incredulity. "Keep your hands off me, Holmes!"

Sherlock's head spun from the sudden movement, but he pushed past it, grabbed her by the shoulders and held her tight. "I need to speak to Detective Inspector Lestrade."

Lestrade would help John. He had to. Chapman's eyes were bulging with rage. Sherlock's face was close and intense.

"Urgently," Sherlock yelled.

Sherlock thought he had her for a moment, but then Chapman was slyly lifting up her radio and pressing the call button with a beep.

"Chapman, phone room..." Chapman started.

Sherlock knocked it out of her hand before he knew what he was doing.

"What's the problem?" Mr. Chapman said through the radio, just before it smashed against the ground and shattered into several pieces, cutting out the sound with a garbled beep, stuttering static, and then silence as it died completely.

Sherlock and Mrs. Chapman stared at the smashed walkie-talkie frozen as they stood.

Sherlock's heart was beating fast. Never mind that he hadn't hurt her, any sort of aggression towards a guard was a cardinal sin in here. Worse than stealing, worse than breaking the rules, worse than beating up another inmate, perhaps worse, even, than killing another inmate. They were just criminals after all and the guards were the law.

The punishment was something that Sherlock could not abide: solitary confinement.

Of course, he had wished for solitude.

In jail, there were always other prisoners and guards, or his cellmate Big Joe. There were other people in the visiting room on visiting days, other people on the phone nearby on phone call days and a security camera in the interrogation room. The closest he got to privacy was in the toilet cubicle and even then there was always someone waiting for their turn outside.

Being surrounded by morons was far more lonely than being alone.

But solitude and solitary confinement were two different things altogether. Solitary confinement meant no entertainment, no phone calls, no visits: no John, no case, no John. No way of finding out what had happened to John until the guards decided the confinement was over. He would prefer torture. No, it _was_ torture. Just himself, a bed, a toilet, four walls and a locked door.

No John.

Chapman's expression switched from shock to anger and Sherlock, against his nature, backed down and held out his hands placatingly. "I'm sorry," he said. "Chapman, I'm sorry. I... I just had a bit of a shock on the phone there. I... I wasn't thinking. It's the concussion! You know I would never... I can't go to solitary, Chapman. What about the Jonesy case?"

But Chapman was just breathing heavily, head down, eyes up and boring straight into Sherlock's skull with a glint of fury.

They could both hear the cavalry running along the corridor to meet them.

"Chapman!" Sherlock said, desperate. "I, uh... look, I don't say this very often, but _please_, Chapman. I'll deduce for you as much as you want. For free. Just tell them you dropped it, tell them it wasn't me, tell them it was an accident."

But when the other guards came storming through the door, led by Mr. Chapman, Mrs. Chapman said nothing, and they tackled Sherlock to the ground, forcing his arms behind him and into cuffs and silencing his protests with a suffocating headlock as they dragged him away.


	13. Brook

The alarm went off and John went into soldier mode.

His hand was steady as he found the Richard Brook waxwork file and slipped it into his jacket. His mind was calm and his plan was clear. He switched the office light off, stood behind the closed door and waited, his heart beating loud in his chest.

It was five minutes before the handle turned.

The door opened, all-but pinning John to the wall.

Two security guards crept in to look around.

John held his breath.

Any moment, they would turn and see him.

Yet if he moved, ran out... a gun fight was unlikely - he doubted that security guards would carry guns around with them... but there would be a chase, maybe a fight.

He could hit them, fight them, but it wouldn't be right. He was the criminal in this situation - they were just two guys doing the night shift.

There was the fact they looked pretty tough too. One bigger guy, buff, muscly; the other skinnier, but athletic. Young, fit. Fitter than him. They could easily outrun him, tackle him down, beat him up, call the police.

He had one thing on them though. They were on a payroll - had no reason to genuinely care if he escaped.

They were turning. Only a split second to decide.

John took a deep breath, jumped out of his hiding place, slammed the door behind him and ran and ran and ran to the sound of their shouts and radio calls to the police and the thwack of their feet against the floor giving chase.

He pushed his way out of a fire escape, welcoming the sharp bite of the winter air and freedom, and then he ran some more, down side-streets and alleyways, fueled by the increased buzz of the adrenaline that hit as the wail of police sirens got louder.

He ran through a stitch, his heart thumping hard in his chest, until he was safe, away, and could stop, lean up against a wall and catch his breath.

Crazy.

But there was no one to laugh with.

Sherlock was in prison and John wasn't finding Mrs. Watson very funny right now.

High from the danger, the risk, he took a couple of tubes in various directions; anywhere, really, to get him further away from Tussaud's and then, when the buzz faded, he found an all-night cafe, ordered a cup of tea and felt his problems wash over him again.

Twelve missed calls from Mary.

Mary. Was he really married to the woman who'd shot his best friend?

When it had happened, John moved back into Baker St., ignored Mary's phone calls and texted her only in response to pregnancy updates. He'd visited Sherlock every day in hospital, obsessively checking his medical records and his pulse to reassure himself that the man wasn't going to die for real this time.

One day when John arrived, Sherlock was asleep and his cover had slipped off. John saw the scars on his chest and suddenly realised how stupid he'd been.

He'd been so focused on Sherlock's betrayal, his lies, his own forgiveness of it, his marriage, his baby, Mary's lies, that he hadn't really considered that Sherlock's time away had been anything other than a two-year, adrenaline-and-puzzle-filled investigation that Sherlock had relished while John had grieved.

Sherlock had gasped as he woke, as if from a nightmare. Saw John, relaxed, and then looked suspiciously at the dislodged covers. He tugged them back over his scars. If he knew what John had seen, neither of them said anything about it.

After that, John had been even more determined not to forgive Mary.

He'd spent hours turning the A.G.R.A. memory stick, full of Mary's past, over in his hand, wondering whether to look at it. Sometimes he'd even put it into the computer and loaded it up...

Then he'd slammed the laptop lid down and yanked the stick out, hoping it would corrupt and save him from making the decision.

He could hear her words in his head. That once he'd looked at the files, he wouldn't love her any more. And despite his anger, he didn't want to lose that love.

Sometimes he drank, and he got philosophical and wondered what made a person. Was it their actions? Or was it just them – who they were? Mary's actions, whatever they'd been, were in the past and in that sense didn't exist any more. In the present, she was still the person he knew, the one he fell in love with. Not to mention the mother of his child.

Even Sherlock insisted that John should forgive her. Sherlock had. And in the end John did too.

Although he was starting to realise that he hadn't, not really.

The gun under his pillow really was for Moriarty though, not Mary. He had been pretty sure he trusted her with his life at least.

That was until he stopped at that all-night cafe for a cuppa, looked at the Richard Brook invoice and saw that the person who'd ordered the waxwork had the same four initials as Mary.

Or was Mary.

A.G.R. Aicher  
12 Main Street,  
Mulhudsknock  
EIRE

He didn't know what it meant, but he went to the airport and caught the next flight to Ireland. He hadn't booked a hotel or brought any luggage, and so he walked out of Dublin airport, got straight into a taxi and asked them to take him to Mulhudskock.

Turned out Main Street was pretty much the only street.

The house was a gorgeous but run-down old farm cottage surrounded by a jungle of weeds. John made his way through it, tramping down the greenery to get to the front door. It wasn't until he reached the porch that he hesitated.

What the hell was he doing here?

Mary's initials. Four letters, didn't seem likely it was a coincidence, but the waxwork had been ordered three years ago and Mary was at home in their flat. Whoever lived here might not have a clue about any of it or about anything.

He listened to the drip of the outdoor tap and breathed in the damp smell of the rotting, creaking wood around him. The glass in the doors was filthy grey and thick with mildew. The red paint was peeling; it was yellow underneath.

And he knocked.

The inside was just as rough as the outside, piled high with clutter and dust. The couple were only in their sixties, but there was a stillness to them, as if they hadn't left the house in years. John held his cup of tea in one hand, pretending to sip it on the edge that looked least likely to give him a disease.

Their names were Beatrice and Michael Brook.

"You've seen him? You've seen Richard?"

John nodded.

Michael and Beatrice clutched at each other, excitedly. "When? Where?"

"Er... well, not for a while. 2010. He was in London."

They hug each other with relief and John feels terrible.

"And you're his friend?" Beatrice asked.

John nodded. "Uh huh. Yep."

"He never really had friends..." Michael said.

"Michael!" Beatrice protested, nudging him.

"What?" Michael said.

John smiled indulgently. "No friends? I can't imagine why. So charming."

"Isn't he?" agreed Michael. "Just like his mother. So shy, though. Except when he was on stage, of course."

John was extremely confused by this description of Moriarty, but he chuckled like it was spot on. "Yeah, that's Richard," he said.

"Richard wouldn't want you telling everyone his business!" Beatrice protested to Michael.

"John's a friend of his, Beatrice!" Michael complained. "Besides, it's my business too, she was my sister after all. She committed suicide, John. Killed herself."

"Oh, oh dear. So sorry for your loss," said John automatically.

"Never even left a note. Poor Richard found her in the bath when he was eleven."

Beatrice looked furious.

"Oh dear, poor Richard," said John. "I... I can sympathise. A friend... another friend... of mine killed himself. I was devastated, it took me years to... well, I don't think I ever got over it to be honest."

"See Beatrice? He understands."

Beatrice just drunk her tea and stared at the cluttered mantlepiece.

"That's why he came to live with us, of course," Michael continued.

"He was lucky to have you," said John, taking another sip of his tea.

Michael humphed modestly, Beatrice's smiled a little, despite herself.

They all sat in silence for a moment, sipping, or pretending to, to fill the silence.

John bucked up the courage to pull the photograph of Mary out of his wallet. "Do you know this woman?"

Michael took the photograph, looked, and his expression turned hard.

John's chest tightened as he wondered what the man might say.

"You're not his friend. You're a reporter, aren't you?"

"What? No!" John protested.

"Get out!" said Michael. "Writing a sequel are we?"

Not what John had been expecting.

"What?" he said.

"Get OUT!" Michael said, standing up and knocking his tea off the sofa arm at the same time. It shattered against the wall and Beatrice gasped.

John stood carefully. It took more than some angry old bloke to scare him physically, but he couldn't fight the impulse of his British manners.

"Right, okay, I'll just... I'll see myself out."

He moved towards the door.

"Erm, where's my coat?"

Michael just screamed at him: "Get out of my fucking house!"

"Okay, okay!"

Moments later, John found himself back on the porch, coatless, the bell above the door tinkling after the slam. He flexed his fingers a couple of times, arms down at his sides, before turning and walking back down the path.

He had reached the gate when he heard the bell go again. He spun around, half expecting to have to dodge a heavy object being thrown towards his skull. Instead, he saw Beatrice. She ran towards him, down the path, in her slippers.

"Did you really see him?"

"Yes," John said, truthfully.

She grasped his arm. "How is he?" she asked.

John was struck silent for a moment, but he knew the only kind thing he could do was to lie: "Fine. He's fine."

* * *

Oooh, what does it all mean? And how is Sherlock doing in solitary confinement?


	14. Solitary

The room was seven-by-seven-by-seven and it felt like being crammed into a box.

There was just enough room to pace, but pacing five feet down the side of a narrow bed and then having to turn around because you'd reached the toilet (at the back of the room) or the locked iron door (at the front of the room) just didn't have the same anxiety-busting effect as genuine pacing.

What's more, he had the frequent sensation that he was sinking back into a whirlpool, pulling the room in with him. It came towards him, but, like an optical illusion, never got any closer.

That was the concussion no doubt.

Sherlock gave up and sat down on the bed.

He had to admit, he was guilty recently, of not thinking things through.

All those years of abstaining from relationships because he'd thought they were an unwelcome distraction. Then he falls in love with one person - one, bloody person - and it turns out they're _not_ a distraction, in fact, they compliment his work and make him better in every conceivable way.

Only it turns out love's drawbacks are worse than mere distraction. Love makes you crazy. You end up in jail for murder and once there, you're so worried about the person you love that you flip out and end up in solitary. And there's no logical reason for any of it, because it takes you further and further away from the person you love... from John.

He'd known love would be trouble, but he'd never thought it would be _this_ much trouble. Especially not unrequited love.

They won't even tell him how long he's in for. It could be days, it could be weeks. Weeks! It was only the second day and it was already unbearable.

The thought of being shut in a box for weeks, not knowing what happened to John at Tussaud's, and if John's okay, of John showing up to visit each week and being turned away, of Mary having the baby and Sherlock being unable to feign unconvincing interest in the baby photos…

Nothing but himself, four windowless walls, a ceiling and a floor.

He got up and started pacing again, the cases spinning around in his head.

He decided to go through it again, try to make his stretch in solitary useful in some way. At Baker St., he often spent hours just sitting, thinking, reasoning around a problem, talking to John whether he was there or not, until the solution presented itself. This didn't have to be any different.

Even if he was trapped.

So, the day before, after speaking with Lestrade, Sherlock had gone to his cell to 'rest' under Dr. Carver's orders, reached under his mattress and found the files Chapman had left there for his 'light reading'.

Before he'd knocked the radio out of her hand and burnt that bridge, of course.

"Four of the twenty are in for stabbing," Sherlock said aloud.

"Any similarities to the Jonesy murder, aside from the weapon?" he imagined John asking.

"Not even the weapon, really," said Sherlock. "Carl Merryweather slit a business rival's throat - dagger was the victim's, had it on display, merchandise from some fantasy TV show. Tim Kramer and Louis Brennan, two separate muggings gone wrong, one a single-blade pen-knife, one the corkscrew of a Swiss army knife. Philip Clarke, _was_ a kitchen knife..."

"Same M.O. then?"

"More rage and stupidity like the rest. His wife made a below-the-belt insult in a row, he grabbed the knife from the kitchen worktop."

"Good job _I've_ not got a temper," said John. "You insult me all the time."

"You have got a temper!" Sherlock protested.

"Oh really?" said John. "Do you know what would calm me down?"

He moved in for a kiss...

Sherlock shook his head, shaking John out of it. Now wasn't time for fantasies. Especially not ones where John turned completely innocent conversations into witless innuendo.

You'd think his subconscious would turn up something a little more exciting and original.

Yet he frequently found that John was exciting enough just as he was and didn't need embellishments from Sherlock's imagination.

"Anyone got a link to the victim?" imaginary John asked, getting back to the case.

"Only the coke."

"Well yeah, that's why you asked for those twenty files in particular, wasn't it? Jonesy was giving coke to Dicky, these are Dicky's customers. Did any of them know Jonesy was the source? Maybe they wanted a freebie and things turned violent."

"Maybe. I figured out Jonesy was the dealer, perhaps someone else did too."

"Of course _you'd_ figure it out," said John.

"Of course," agreed Sherlock.

"Anyone got a link to you?"

"Four," said Sherlock.

"Tell me."

"Well, Richard Markham of course. Dicky."

"That arsehole," said John, clenching his fists. "Just say the word and I'll knock him out."

Sherlock snorted a quiet laugh. Would the John react like that if he told him? Probably, yes, almost definitely. "Thank you. That won't be necessary."

"How's the concussion, anyway?" John asked, suddenly concerned.

"A bit nauseous, and my head's a bit…" he trailed off. "Don't worry - I'm… fine."

"Come here," said John, and moved over to give Sherlock a hug.

He put his arms around Sherlock and Sherlock relaxed into it for a moment, but then shook the image out of his mind, irritated, and sat imaginary John back down on the bed at a platonic distance.

"I said it's fine," snapped Sherlock.

John rolled his eyes. "We can't even hug, now? Your fantasies..."

"What?"

"They're a bit..."

Sherlock frowned. "What?"

"Well, they're a bit tame, aren't they? Wouldn't you like to..."

John looked him up and down, suggestively.

"Just focus on the case, John," said Sherlock, irritated.

"If you say so. Did Dicky's file turn up anything useful?"

"No. I arrested him, so I already knew about his crime. As you'd expect, since being incarcerated, he's been reprimanded several times for violence, had several periods in solitary, several additions to his sentence."

"Because of the drugs?"

"No. Hmmm, that's... there's nothing in the file about the drugs. Strange that a man so useless at keeping himself out of trouble has managed to avoid being detected as the prison drug dealer."

"Is he a suspect?"

"I considered it, but I think... no. Jonesy was his drugs supply, why cut it off?"

"Who else?" asked John.

"Thomas Dimes. But his ego's too big for the anonymity of framing me in secret. Like Dicky he would prefer to get his revenge on me in public."

John looked at him sympathetically, put a comforting hand on his and squeezed.

Sherlock shrugged him off. "Honestly John, I can take care of myself."

"Clearly," said John, brushing his fingers lightly across Sherlock's black eye.

Sherlock flinched, but John didn't stop. His fingers ran around into Sherlock's hair. "I could give you some better ideas for a fantasy..." he said, and he leaned forward for a kiss...

Sherlock ducked out of the way. "Get some better lines, John."

"It's _your_ imagination," said John with a shrug, looking put-out but resigned, just like the third time he found eyeballs in the coffee jar.

Sherlock resumed his pacing. "Chrissy Horton is an old... associate."

He skipped the part about knowing him from his days as an addict.

"He has no reason to hold a grudge against me and he's an idiot rather than a serial killer - in for cooking a lethally bad batch of meth."

"And the fourth?" asked John.

"Roy Sampson. His sister, Sandra Sampson, was a former client of ours..."

"Oh yes," said John. "Came to us for help with a stalker and ended up being arrested by Lestrade for... fraud, was it? Does Roy know?"

"Not sure, I didn't even know until I saw the file. He's either a brilliant actor or none-the-wiser and, additionally, he doesn't have a history of violent crime - poisoning is a very different crime to stabbing."

"Sounds like he's the best bet though?"

"Going after him would be twisting the facts to suit a theory - not even a theory either, more like a slim possibility."

As Sherlock paced in his box, he ran through the files again in his mind as best as he could and still came up with nothing.

John was gone.

Sherlock sighed and stretched out on the uncomfortable bed, staring up at the ceiling.

He wondered how the real John was doing. Had he come up against security? Had he been hurt?

He never used to worry. It was illogical. Firstly, it would have no effect on the outcome of what happened to John. Secondly, John could usually take care of himself. And thirdly, now that he had calmed down, he'd realised that the chances of death by security guard were very low and the only realistic worst-case scenario was John getting arrested.

That was putting aside the fact he was investigating Moriarty of course. Had John had found anything on that front in Tussaud's?

Sherlock knew for a fact that there wouldn't be anything there that Moriarty had left by accident - that would be far too sloppy. But the man did like to play games and even a planted clue could lead to something.

A planted clue.

If John found a clue, would he realise it was planted?

Unlikely.

Sherlock stood up, suddenly panicked. He had to get out of there and help John, he just had to. He wondered what he would need to do to get a phone call - it was Tuesday, but in solitary this right was denied to him, no matter how many tokens he'd earned.

He banged on the inside of the door. "Hey!" he yelled.

Silence.

"I need to speak to Detective Inspector Lestrade, it's an emergency. I'm a detective, it's about a case, a really important case," he yelled.

"Nice try, Holmes!" shouted Mr. Chapman, muffled through the thick walls.

"Idiot!" Sherlock shouted through. "Lives are at stake."

"You mess with my wife, I mess with you," Chapman shouted back.

"Ex-wife!" Sherlock called, and he slammed his palm against the wall. It was infuriating being so dependent on the guards' whims for even the most basic of privileges, for even the right to contact his friends or have access to a pen or...

Suddenly he remembered something and banged on the door again.

"Hey!" he yelled. "Hey, Chapman!"

Silence.

"Hey, is anyone there? I need my prescription! Listen to me!"

He knew what he had to do. The bed was screwed down, but he could still make a mess. He threw the mattress across the room and started tearing up his sheets and pillow. He destroyed everything he could and then collapsed in the middle of it all and screamed as loudly as he could.

* * *

Poor Sherlock! :( So, whaddaya think? Comments please...


	15. Browse

John walked, upright, face hard, down Main Street, following the signpost to the village centre. It was cold without his jacket, but temperature was the last thing on his mind.

He should've known Mary was too good to be true from the moment he met her.

It wasn't even about him was it? It was about Sherlock, bloody Sherlock, always Sherlock. Somehow Mary knew Moriarty and had married John as part of some plan to get closer to Sherlock or tear the heart right out of Sherlock or... something.

He couldn't get his head around it all, what it all meant. Surely it couldn't all be a lie?

But the evidence was right in front of him.

A.G.R. Aicher, A.G.R.A., Mary, had ordered the Moriarty waxwork from the address of Richard Brook's aunty and uncle. Richard Brook was Moriarty. Moriarty's uncle recognised Mary and flipped out.

It was definitely evidence. Evidence of what though, he had no idea.

No idea_ yet_.

He might not be Sherlock Holmes, but he'd learnt a thing or two about detective work over the past few years. The Brooks had mentioned a 'sequel' to something and so John asked a passing farmer if there was a library nearby.

"Beryl's Cafe."

In a place so small, no further directions were needed.

The cafe was also a newsagents and shop, and the library was a store cupboard crammed with books and operating on a trade system.

"I haven't got a book to trade," John apologised, as he took his mug of tea.

"Don't worry this time love," Beryl said. She pulled the dim light's switch and ushered him into the cupboard. "Just make sure you bring it back and be sure to give us a good review on Trip Advisor..."

"Er, okay," agreed John.

"...do mention the home-made pastries, won't you. Would you like one, by the way?"

"Um, no thanks. Shall I just..."

"Okay, maybe after," she said amicably. "I'll leave you to browse."

She shut the door behind him.

There was no system to speak of, and books were stacked three-deep in some places. He got stuck in, scanning his eyes over the titles and looking for something that stood out.

Half an hour later, he was dusty and irritated and sick of the sight of paperbacks, hardbacks and books in general. He much preferred the more action-packed side of detective work, particularly when he was desperate for answers.

He poked his head back out of the door.

Beryl was drinking a cuppa with an older couple at one of the little tables in the cafe section of her establishment.

"I thought you'd got lost in there," she joked.

John smiled politely.

"Do you have any... local books?"

"Oh, why didn't you say so?" she said. "We keep those out here, people like to look through them with a coffee and a cake. Could I interest you in a cake..."

"No thanks," said John.

She pointed at the shelf John knew Sherlock would have noticed the second he walked through the front door. He crouched down and ran his finger over the titles:

Walks of Mulhudsknock, History of Blanchardstown, Mulhudsknock Church Directory, 19th Century Dublin, County Cork Pub Walks, Ireland in Photographs... It was on the third shelf down that he saw it.

The Brook Murder.

He slid it from the shelf. It was a slim paperback with a very basic design - a white background, a plain font and a generic photograph of the village. Clearly an amateur publication - there wasn't even an author listed on the front.

"Terrible business that," Beryl said.

John just stared at the book in his hands. His phone rang in his pocked, but he ignored it. There was nobody he could face speaking to right now. Nobody.

"I think your phone's ringing," said Beryl.

"Mmm hmm," he mumbled vaguely.

"Another cuppa?" she tried.

"No thanks," he said, standing. "I'm gonna need something stiffer for this."


	16. Shrink

"He's not answering," Dr. Carver said, putting down the phone.

Sherlock pulled against the restraints that held him to the bed in the prison's three-bed hospital ward. Oh, they didn't hurt, they were soft on his wrists, but nonetheless unbreakable. He hadn't thought his imprisonment could really get any worse but now he was not only trapped by walls and guards and locks and alarms but also by straps that pinned him down so he couldn't move his arms or legs more than a couple of inches.

That and his concussion was giving him a blinding headache.

Needless to say, his plan had gone a little awry.

"Untie me," Sherlock demanded.

"You've had a psychotic episode," Carver said. "First I need to determine whether you're a danger to yourself or others."

"I told you, all I need is my prescription. It calms me right down."

"Missing just one day doesn't explain the relapse - zamasaproxyl takes three months to get into your system."

"Clearly it wasn't a psychotic episode then," Sherlock complained.

"You said yourself I should call your doctor."

"I didn't say tie me up in the mean time. It's medieval!"

"You're propped up with comfortable pillows and covered by a warm duvet, it's hardly the dark ages," said Carver. "Besides, it's for your own safety."

"Doctors aren't supposed to be evil," said Sherlock, petulantly.

Carver didn't dignify that with a response, just turned at the sound of Mr. Chapman walking into the room, holding a box. "Got your meds," he said, tossing the packet at Sherlock and letting it hit him in the face.

Carver shot the guard a look.

Sherlock snorted with amusement. Clearly she didn't fancy the guard as much when he was throwing his weight around.

Carver tutted and retrieved the medication from where it had fallen, checking the drug name on the packet - yes, it was zamsaproxyl - and then popping a tablet out and holding it to Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock frowned and hesitated, but he supposed actually taking one or two instead of flushing them away wouldn't do too much harm. And if the doctor thought he was medicated, she might free him more quickly. He opened up and Carver held a glass of water to his lips.

He hesitated once more, then swallowed.

Mr. Chapman was still standing there, staring at him.

"Detective Turner wants to speak to you, Holmes," Mr. Chapman said.

"That won't be possible right now," said Dr. Carver, coldly.

Sherlock smirked at Chapman. "Are you done?"

But Chapman wasn't done. He pulled a file out of his box and waved it. "Found something under your mattress."

Bugger.

"Know what the penalty is for breaking into staff-only rooms?"

Sherlock did know. Three months in solitary. Three months in solitary and he'd be in genuine need of the medication he'd just taken.

And then Chapman pulled out something else: Sherlock's last bag of coke.

"What about the penalty for this?"

Sherlock frowned. Now he was in serious trouble.

* * *

Sorry, I just love cliffhangers. It's a thing. ;)


	17. Drink

The Nag's Head was busier than John would have expected. One or two older couples and younger families were eating today's "special" (the only thing on the menu) and a group of farm workers were gathered around the bar having a rowdy, back-slapping laugh over an afternoon pint.

John went straight over to the bar, ordered a beer, downed it and then ordered another.

"You look how I feel," laughed the bartender, an old-boy with a thick, country accent.

John attempted a polite smile but it came out just as the pursing of his lips.

He took his pint to a booth, put the book on the table in front of him, and stared at its cover. He didn't know what he was going to find in there and he didn't know if he wanted to know either. Thing was, once you knew something, you could never un-know it.

Right now, Mary was his wife. Despite her faults and mysteries, he loved her. Would he feel the same when he'd finished reading?

He wasn't much of a drinker, Harry's alcoholism had put him off, but sometimes, occasionally, you just really needed to get pissed. This was definitely one of those times.

"Are you going to read it?" he imagined Sherlock saying. "Or throw it on the fire?"

"There isn't a fire," John muttered back.

"I was making a reference to your disposal of Mary – or A.G.R.A's – USB stick and your apparent inability to face up to who you are married to."

"I know you were!" John snapped.

"I see. So you were attempting to avoid my interference as well as the truth."

"Jesus, Sherlock. Have you heard of tact?"

Sherlock just smirked.

"I'm off to the bar," said John, downing the last dregs of his beer.

He came back with two pints.

"I got you one," John said.

"You'll have to drink it for me," said Sherlock.

"That was the idea," said John.

They sat in silence for a while, staring at the book while John swallowed mouthfuls of beer at a rather unhealthy pace.

Eventually, Sherlock asked, "What's the line, John?"

"Line?"

"That's what you're worried about, isn't it? Mary's killed someone, you can live with that. What you can't live with is her being on the wrong side of the line; a murderer."

"I don't know," he said, truthfully. "Saving someone's life. Unpleasant, but justifiable. In the line of duty - if it's a killer, I don't know. Maybe. I've done it myself, but I didn't like it, I don't _feel_ justified, I feel guilty."

"That's because you're a good person, John."

John smiled a little. "Yet I'm married to a woman who shot you."

Sherlock's forehead creased in puzzlement for a moment. "I'm not dead, John. She's not a murderer on my account."

"She could've been. You could've..."

John trailed off and picked at a scratch in the wooden table. He couldn't stand to think of how close his wife had come to killing his best friend. He couldn't stand it.

Sherlock leaned towards him. John watched, wondering what he was doing as he came closer. Did he have something on his face, some evidence that Sherlock wanted to examine more closely, some speck of splatter of something that had brushed off onto his face at the Brooks' that was going to lead them to an amazing revelation?

Sherlock kissed him.

Wow. Where the hell had that come from?

Sherlock sat back and grinned.

"Er, Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"I'm not gay," said John.

"It's your imagination John, not mine."

John frowned and stood. "I'm off to the bar."

"You still have a beer," said Sherlock, puzzled. "Ah, I see. It's not strong enough. Now you want to throw your sexuality crisis on the fire too, so to speak."

"I'm not having a sexuality crisis!" whispered John angrily.

He came back with a whiskey on the rocks.

"Good choice John. Very manly," teased Sherlock.

"Jesus. Even my subconscious is out to get me," John complained, downing the drink and barely savouring the warm burn of it on his throat before he chased it with another swig of cold beer.

"Have I crossed the line, John?" Sherlock asked, quietly.

John softened a little. "No, it's fine. I can't say I haven't wondered about it myself. I'm mean, you're very…"

Sherlock's mouth quirked upwards. "Not that line."

Oh, he didn't mean the kiss; he meant killing Magnussen.

As disturbing as Mary's certainty that 'people like Magnussen should be killed' had been, John couldn't help but agree with her on some level. How could he regret Magnussen's death when it had saved his life, Mary's life, the baby's life? Magnussen would have destroyed them all with one phone call.

He was relieved that Magnussen was dead.

It didn't change the fact that it was murder.

"I don't know, Sherlock," John sighed. "I really don't know."

Sherlock looked him in the eye, and then he was gone.

John pushed aside the murder question for the time being to wonder if he was going crazy, why the hell he'd imagined Sherlock kissing him and, if he was being completely honest with himself, why he'd enjoyed the imaginary attention.

It was entirely possible that he was having a nervous breakdown. It wouldn't be surprising. Some sort of mental mix-up - Mary and Sherlock had both been on his mind a lot recently, they'd both lied to him, they'd both killed people, he wasn't sure what to think about either of them.

He was drunk too. Had to take that into account.

Still. A kiss?

He started on the next pint, the one he'd bought for Sherlock.

Sherlock was always on his mind, that wasn't normal for a straight man, was it?

What about loving him, was that normal?

But, what about Sherlock Holmes was ever normal? The man was so unique that it was difficult to define him in ordinary terms - John had tried enough times to put Sherlock's brilliance into the words of his blog, and always felt he'd fallen short. So why shouldn't John love him? Why did it have to mean anything more than platonic love?

Although, John mused, platonic just didn't seem to fully encompass how he felt. There was something more. Was he attracted to Sherlock?

Sherlock was attractive. He was very attractive.

That didn't really mean he was attracted _to_ him though, in a gay way. He meant that Sherlock was attractive in the way that you might comment on a piece of good-looking... architecture. It was quite normal for straight people to have some objective attraction towards people of the same sex, he heard about it all the time, it didn't mean anything, not really.

Or did it?

No, no, no. He really _wasn't_ gay.

The idea just didn't sit right with him. Not that there was anything wrong with being gay. It's just that he wasn't. It wasn't _him_.

Yet...

Was it just that the _idea_ of being gay didn't feel right?

As if being gay would somehow change who he was and he'd suddenly start drinking cocktails instead of beer, going to spas instead of crime scenes, and wearing skin-tight designer t-shirts instead of unremarkable jumpers.

Maybe he could be gay and still be John Watson.

John downed his pint.

He could not believe that he was thinking these things.

He was _married_. Married to a _woman_. He liked women, he fancied women, he loved Mary... the Mary he'd married, anyway. All these thoughts were just a reaction to what was happening. He was running away from his fears about Mary and projecting his affections onto the first person who popped into his head, who would, of course, be Sherlock, the man being always on his mind.

Which was kind of gay.

And he really didn't want to think about this right now, he had enough to deal with. He turned his attention back to the book in front of him on the table.

It was difficult to focus on the title through his drunken haze. Any more booze and he would have no chance of reading the damn thing.

He staggered over to the bar, leaned heavily on it, and ordered a coffee.

"Are you okay, mate?" the barman asked him.

"Make that two coffees," John said.

This was definitely a two-cup problem.

He sat back down, steeled himself, and turned to the first page.

* * *

Comments please :)

I've had loads of people comment on Sherlock's imaginary conversation with John in chapter 14, what did you think of John's with Sherlock in this chapter? Favourite?


	18. Shrunk

Unlike the rest of the prison, Dr. Carver's office decor was somewhat homely; an obvious attempt to make the patients feel at ease. There was patterned wallpaper, pictures on the walls and two armchairs, more-or-less facing each other, but off at an angle so that the patient didn't have to look directly into the doctor's eyes.

Sherlock sat in one armchair, tapping his fingers against its arm to combat the numbness that had been bothering him for the past half an hour. He hadn't mentioned this symptom to the doctor of course – if he'd been taking zamasaproxyl all along he would no longer be experiencing side effects.

A warm, prickly, pins-and-needles sensation was also spreading up neck. It wasn't a bad feeling as such, just… weird.

Carver sat in the other armchair, oblivious to her patient's symptoms, tapping away into an iPad with no internet. There was no WiFi in Flitwick Prison, for security reasons. No way of contacting John that way, but by Dr. Carver there was a table, and on it a phone.

A phone he could use to ring John.

"I've looked back over your medical history," said Carver, indicating the iPad she'd downloaded Sherlock's files to. "Last time you were using..."

"I'm not using."

"Then why did you have a bag of cocaine in your cell?"

"Who says it was mine?"

"In any case, last time you _did_ take cocaine, you ended up with drug-induced psychosis."

"This is different," said Sherlock quickly.

"How?"

"I've got medication now."

The prickle was expanding, warming his cheeks.

"Doing coke..." said Carver (Sherlock didn't bother to correct her again) "...and then taking zamasaproxyl to counteract the psychological side effects is like chasing down a dieting pill with a MacDonald's."

"I'm not a danger when I'm on zamasaproxyl," insisted Sherlock.

Carver was dubious. "You are in prison for murder, Mr. Holmes."

"That wasn't psychosis."

"How can you be sure?"

"Magnussen was definitely going to destroy us, I could read it in his face."

"Hmmm," said Carver, making some notes on her iPad.

She then ran her finger over the screen, looking back at Sherlock's medical record.

"What happened last time you had psychosis, Mr. Holmes?"

"Last time?" said Sherlock. "That implies that I'm suffering from it now."

The pins-and-needles were around his eyes. The office looked as prickly as his skin. The latter part was probably the concussion.

"Okay, _when_ you had psychosis," Carver corrected, indulgently.

Sherlock frowned. "As I'm sure it says in my file, I suffered from paranoia and delusions. I thought the government wanted to dissect my brain for science. A man started following me, I thought he was an agent, sent to kidnap me, so I knocked him out."

"And?"

"Turned out I'd dropped my wallet a few blocks previously. He was a do-gooder running to catch me and give me it back. Shortly afterwards I was diagnosed with psychosis."

"You've been on zamasaproxyl ever since?"

"Do you have my file or not?" spat Sherlock.

"I do," said Carver. "And it shows that in the two years leading up to you killing - Charles Magnussen, was it? - you didn't fill any prescriptions."

"I was abroad."

"You still got a prescription for zamasaproxyl?"

"No, they gave me damasproxyl, but it's pretty much the same thing, isn't it?"

Carver froze, frowned, and jotted a few more notes into her iPad. "Has anything... strange... happened to you recently?"

Sherlock made a great show of pondering for a moment. "I don't know whether to tell you this," he said eventually.

"Please do," said Carver.

"I have enemies in here."

"Go on."

"Dicky and his friends, they all look at me. But I put them in their place."

"What do you mean?"

"This is confidential, yes?"

Carver nodded.

"I get into fights," said Sherlock.

"You beat _him_ up?" asked Carver, eyeing Sherlock's injuries dubiously.

"Well, I start it," amended Sherlock. "Verbally at least. To make sure he knows that I won't put up with his scheming."

"Anything else?"

"Like I told you, somebody's trying to frame me for murder."

Carver scribbled away. "Mm hmmm."

"That's why I took those files. So that I could figure out who."

"Anything else?"

"Well," said Sherlock. "It's possible that the government has a plan to bore me to death. Do you know we have a bedtime here? And table tennis?"

"Right," said Carver. "Well, thank you very much, Mr. Holmes. No matter what Mr. Chapman says, I'm going to keep you in the hospital wing under observation to make sure that the zamasaproxyl kicks in."

"There's really no need, doctor," said Sherlock. "I told you I was prescribed damasaproxyl in the interim."

The doctor's face twitched again at the mention of the other drug.

"Can I borrow your phone?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm afraid that's really not..."

Sherlock just leapt up from his seat, ignored the thumping this caused in his head, grabbed the phone and dialed. Carver stood up and tried to take the receiver, but Sherlock jumped over the back of the chair, holding the phone against his face, as far away from the doctor as he could manage.

It was ringing. Come on, John.

Carver leaned over, trying to grab the phone. "Mr. Holmes, it's not phone time!"

"You tied me up during phone time."

"Well, if I ask the guard..."

Carver rushed round the chair, so Sherlock squirmed his way around the other side, stepping on the table to get away. Papers and post-it notes were up in the air, the iPad thudded to the floor.

Carver gasped and rushed to check her precious device.

Sherlock just kept listening to the ring-ring ring-ring and willing John to pick up.

Carver pulled the cable out at the wall.

"Mr. Holmes!" she said, exasperated.

"That wasn't psychosis," said Sherlock. "I just really need to use the phone. My best friend found some evidence on a waxwork invoice that I think might be leading him into a trap set by a consulting criminal, he's in terrible danger."

But Carver just tapped more notes into her iPad as she called for the guard.

"Hey," said Sherlock, standing amidst the mess he had made of the office, head spinning, hands numb, vision spotty. "Could you put in a good word for my parole hearing request?"

* * *

Psychosis doesn't usually turn someone into a murderer by the way - just want to point that out because Dr. Carver seems to imply this in the dialogue. It is, however, a scary thing to go through, or to see someone go through, and it can be triggered by drug use (I should also point out there are other causes) so although this isn't canon, it does tie in as something that could potentially have happened to Sherlock when he was an addict and that may have encouraged him to quit. Yes, I have done my research.

Thanks for all the comments so far. I always reply, but some of you are 'guests' on the site with no contact details so thanks to you as well :) Hope you enjoyed the chapter. As always, please let me know what you think of this new development!


	19. Drunk

Caller withheld again.

John ignored it. He was in no fit state to talk to Sherlock or anybody else right now. The thought of anyone else knowing what he'd just read, even, or especially, his best friend, made him feel as raw as an exposed wound.

He never cried, but he was afraid Sherlock would hear the wetness of his eyes in the cracking of his voice.

The book told the story of Richard Brook, a boy who moved to Mulhudsknock as a child, after the suicide of his mother, to live with his aunty and uncle.

The author seemed to have interviewed everyone Richard had ever met. There were quotes from his teacher saying how clever and charming he was, how they thought he'd go far. Could have chosen a career in something science-related, maths, medical - whatever he wanted. But it was acting that he loved. Started a school drama club, always slipping off to watch plays in Dublin.

Got his first paid acting job playing Oliver in the city. Auditioned for hundreds of TV jobs and eventually got one; an advert. A couple of years later and he was on Irish kids' TV. Mulhudsknock was proud - their only previous claim to fame was that Pierce Brosnan had grown up ten miles from their village, now they had their own homegrown celebrity.

Little did they know he'd soon be bringing them a different sort of fame.

In 2004, Richard Brook met Celia Cook. A year later, they married and bought a house in Mulhudskock. They loved the village, the countryside, and so they stayed and commuted to Dublin for work. A year after that, they had a child together - Danny Brook.

More quotes, from the locals. The priest who married them, the shop keeper who sold Danny sweets, the hairdresser who did Celia's hair, the childminder who babysat Danny every so often when Richard and Celia went for night out in the city. What a lovely couple they were, kept themselves to themselves mostly, but nice, polite, pleasant. You never would've suspected.

Then one night in 2008, Celia strangled little Danny in his sleep and disappeared.

Richard Brook went crazy with grief and got himself committed. Later, he escaped the asylum.

Celia and Richard were both still at large.

Sad, very sad, but it wasn't what was making John's eyes burn. That would be the wedding photograph. Celia and Richard, at Mulhudsknock's little church. He in a suit, she in a plain dress, holding hands and laughing at something, half-glancing at each other, half at the camera.

Mary Morstan and James Moriarty.

It was late when John got back into London, holding the book in his hand. He wanted to get it as far away from himself as possible, really, but he was too practical for that and as he had no luggage and no jacket, he'd had to hold it, switching hands every so often like it was blistering them.

Made no difference really. Even if he'd thrown it into a pit, shredded it, torched it, stamped up and down on it and screamed, he still wouldn't have been able to think about anything else.

He got straight onto a train from the airport and straight into a cab outside King's Cross, but jumped out again when he realised he had no clue where to go, waving an apology to the driver.

He couldn't go home, he couldn't visit his best friend till Saturday, and telling anybody else about all this would be insanity. No, he was stuck with his own erratic thoughts, ping-ponging around his brain and inflaming his hangover headache.

Had Mary - or Celia Cook, or A.G.R.A., or whatever she was called - really married Moriarty and had his child? Had she killed little Danny, or had she been set up?

He knew Mary had done _something_ bad in the past, but surely he wasn't that much of a terrible judge of character that he would fall in love with a woman who'd murder her own child?

It was far more likely that Moriarty had killed the toddler. Far, far more likely.

But then, there was the memory of her saying that once he'd read her files, the USB stick, he wouldn't love her any more. Is this what he would have found on there if he'd looked? What she thought he'd put behind them?

Or maybe, hopefully, Danny Brooks had never existed, never been born at all, let alone killed, and this was all some elaborate trick. It would be easy enough to Photoshop the wedding photo, make up the story, have that book printed.

No, no, there had to be some truth to it. The Brooks had recognised Mary's photograph and reacted violently. They hadn't seen Richard for a long time. They thought John was a reporter, chasing the story. The book was worn, old, clearly printed a few years ago.

There was some truth to the whole thing, definitely, but how much? He clenched his fists and shut his eyes for a moment.

"Are you okay?" a woman asked, touching his arm.

He started, she started.

"Yes. Sorry. Thank you. Yes, I'm fine," he said.

She half-smiled and disappeared back into the crowd.

John wasn't fine though. He felt dizzy, queasy. He'd been going on for too long on adrenaline and coffee and now he was starting to come down. He couldn't stay in the street forever, of course, but he could certainly have a sit down while he got his head straight and decided on his next move.

No seats, though. So he sunk to the ground, back against the street's safety railings, and put his head in his hands.

"Okay?" a man asked, crouching next to him.

"Yes fine, thank you."

"Not feeling dizzy? That nice lady drugged you... three, four... minutes ago, it really should be taking effect by now."

John sat up, startled.

It was Moriarty.

John opened his mouth, but before he could respond or react, the drug hit, and then he was face down in the street, his limbs too heavy to lift, his head too foggy to focus.

Moriarty stood and brushed himself off.

People around them moved away to get out of it, glancing sidelong, nosy. Others moved closer to get a better look. Most though, rushed past like busy ants, buried in thoughts and iPods, avoiding eye contact.

They could all hear a siren was getting louder and louder.

"Oh look, don't worry," said Moriarty, moving him into the recovery position. "_Somebody_ must have called an ambulance."

The hoverers, wondering whether they ought to help, were placated by Moriarty's apparent assistance - somebody appeared to be taking control of the situation and they could carry on with their evenings interrupted, consciences clear.

John tried to tell them Moriarty _wasn't _helping, but his tongue was thick and all he could manage was an incoherent groan.

Two paramedics, or men dressed as paramedics, loaded John onto a stretcher and everything went from fuzzy to black.

* * *

This story is nearly at 100 reviews! Wow, thanks everyone, it gives me such a buzz to know you're enjoying the fic enough to take the time to comment! :)


	20. Revelation

John still wasn't picking up the phone.

Sherlock put down the receiver.

At least he knew John could usually look after himself. And he was consoled somewhat by the fact that Mary or Lestrade would call if anything serious had really happened.

But still, why wouldn't he answer his phone? What was the point of Sherlock pushing past his spinning head and prickly face to break out of the hospital wing and into Mrs. Chapman's office after dark, if John was going to bloody well ignore his calls?

Okay, so it had been easy. Even with dizziness, nausea and weird prickly sensations all over his skin, he was still Sherlock Holmes. Plus the medical area wasn't locked shut with an electronic signal like his cell door.

If caught though, the punishment would be an unbearable stretch in solitary confinement, had John thought about that?

No he hadn't. Selfish.

Not that Sherlock had even contemplated staying in his hospital bed, concussion or no concussion. Even if it wasn't for wanting to warn John about Moriarty's clue, he couldn't miss an opportunity to snoop around the prison at night when the prisoners were all locked up in their cells and there were only one or two guards about on the night shift.

Sherlock switched on Mrs. Chapman's computer. It was old, slow and annoying, but eventually her desktop loaded up.

He started downloading a piece of hacking software that he could use to get into Tussaud's database to see what John had found out from breaking in and stealing the invoices. While it transferred - ten minutes - he had a look around Chapman's files for anything relevant to the Jonesy case.

There was nothing really, just Word documents with amateur signs she'd made (No Running In The Canteen, Silence In The Library, Fifteen Minutes Max On Weights), spreadsheets tracking the supplies coming into the kitchen and the shop.

Ah, disciplinary records for _all _the prisoners. A quick keyword search showed that the only reference to Jonesy was in Jonesy's file. Nobody had an issue with him, not one that had been recorded, anyway. Again, this suggested Sherlock was being set up and Jonesy was just collateral.

There were still five minutes to go on the hack download.

He opened up Explorer and had a look at Chapman's browsing history.

As he couldn't see anything on Jonesy, he might as well snoop around Chapman's affairs. The more he knew about her, the better his deductions would be and the more favours he could get - once he smoothed it over with her about the radio incident, that was. Or, if he was really lucky, he would find something he could use to persuade her to help him with the case, or let him out at night, maybe get daily phone calls...

Ebay, YouTube, Facebook, the usual. Googling assertiveness skills (Sherlock snorted), and job websites and funny jokes. Bank website. He tried a few passwords and didn't get in - clearly she'd left it as the bank's set password, usually a random series of letters and numbers that even he couldn't figure out.

He went back to Ebay and clicked on the link to see what Mrs. Chapman had been buying. He was confident he could have guessed the password to that one, but he didn't have to because it was still logged in.

She didn't buy much, but sold books, DVDs and CDs pretty regularly. Clothes, sometimes. At first he thought there was nothing of interest, but then he noticed that the only thing she'd bought recently was a box of 1000 resealable bags.

Odd.

Several uses for the bags ran through his mind. Some people used them to package hand-made jewelry and the like, but if she was doing that and was a regular Ebay seller, why wasn't she selling the stuff online? Possible that it was a new hobby, but people usually started selling before they got to the bagging stage, and she would definitely have bought pieces to use online.

The same applied to any other sort of collecting, creating or selling that someone might require the bags for - their other Ebay buys and sells would give some indication of the nature of the hobby. Nothing.

Of course, he was just playing devil's advocate with himself to be thorough. It was obvious what the bags were really for.

He went back into the deliveries spreadsheet. She wasn't tracking all the deliveries as he'd previously thought, she'd highlighted one company in particular, Dobson Wholesale, who brought in food in bulk. The company that he'd long since figured out was the one that brought in the cocaine.

If he had been able to log onto her bank account, he undoubtably would have seen a few suspicious money transfers. Well, well, well.

So, Chapman was the supplier! He could use that fact to gain her cooperation when required. Success number one!

The computer dinged and Sherlock installed the hacking software. After that, getting into Tussaud's database took him all of five minutes, it wasn't exactly maximum security. He did a search for the order for the Richard Brook waxwork.

He really ought to teach John how to hack, it was so much more efficient than breaking and entering. Although he found that he much preferred the thought of John kicking doors down and sneaking around in the dark building with his gun than sat at home on his laptop investigating electronically.

The computer beeped. It had found the file.

And, oh shit, he knew why John hadn't been answering his calls.

A.G.R. Aicher

12 Main Street,

Mulhudsknock

EIRE

A.G.R.A.

Mary's initials.

There was no way that Mary ordered the Moriarty waxwork, though. It was obvious. Even if she did have a connection to the consulting criminal, the woman had got married under a pseudonym, she would not have used her real name to make an incriminating order and neither would Moriarty be so stupid as to leave such an obvious real clue.

But John, already struggling with whether he could trust Mary, would have panicked, gone to investigate.

There would be some truth to it, somewhere, but overall it was definitely a trap or trick of some kind. And because only John would have had an emotional reaction to those initials, it wasn't a trap for Sherlock, it was a trap for John.

He dialed Lestrade.

"Hello?" the D.I. said, groggily.

"Lestrade."

"Sherlock, it's one in the morning!"

"I need you to find out if John's in Ireland."

"I'm not spying on John for you Sherlock, why don't you just call him and ask?"

Sherlock interrupted, impatient and irritated: "It's about Moriarty."

"On it," said Lestrade.

Lestrade put Sherlock on hold and the phone was silent. Sherlock tapped his fingers impatiently against the desk, heart racing, irrationally.

And then he had his Eureka moment.

Chapman. If she was running the prison's drug operation, she had motive to kill Jonesy.

He thought back.

Her reaction the first time he deduced for her - as with everyone, she had been shocked and worried. Everyone was worried, worried that he knew all their secrets. Most people didn't realise that their secrets were dull and beneath his notice.

He'd thought Chapman beneath his notice. She was pathetic, mooning after her ex-husband. That part was real at least, she couldn't help but ask for updates on his non-existent sex life. But every time Sherlock deduced for her she became more and more paranoid that he would figure _her_ secret out, that he was a threat to her.

He hadn't been a threat to her at that point, she'd done it all on the computer or outside the prison, no direct contact with Jonesy or the suppliers, nothing in her clothes or her hands or anywhere to give him a clue.

She didn't know though, whether she was giving off clues or not.

She didn't know that Sherlock was buying coke off Jonesy, she thought he was looking into Jonesy and that it would lead him straight to her.

As a single woman with a mortgage and... yes, debts as well, huge debts, working full-time, dealing drugs and selling things online to make the repayments, she couldn't just quit her job. She started job hunting online so that she could escape Sherlock's watchful eye, but didn't get any offers. She put a word in for Sherlock's parole hearing, hoping to get rid of him, but didn't hear back.

When Sherlock got a job in the kitchen with Jonesy, it was the final straw. She panicked.

Sherlock was too well connected to kill - Mycroft would never let it rest. So she killed Jonesy to make sure that he couldn't rat on her and framed Sherlock in the hope that he'd be sent to another prison out of her way.

Sherlock mentally kicked himself.

He'd been so focused on the prisoners, but of course it was a guard. Who else would've been able to unlock the kitchen and take the knife with his fingerprints on it?

"Sherlock?" Lestrade was back.

"Yes, what, what is it?" asked Sherlock, putting Chapman out of his mind.

"There was a flight for John Hamish Watson coming back in from Ireland earlier this evening."

"Mary?"

"Hasn't seen him since yesterday, they had a fight."

"Moriarty's got John," Sherlock said.

"Shit, are you sure?" said Lestrade. "Of course you are. I'll find him, Sherlock. I'll put my best people on the job."

The phone went dead.

Best people? BEST PEOPLE?

Sherlock's heart was racing, his chest tight.

John.

Why had he allowed himself to get close to someone and let his enemies see it? Why had he told John to dig up that grave? And now Scotland Yard's 'best people' were on the job. Well, it wasn't good enough.

There was only one person who was good enough to beat Moriarty. Sherlock Holmes. And even he hadn't managed it yet.

Sherlock knew what he had to do.


	21. Captured

When John came to, he found that he was straddling a pony, gold paint chipped and faded, on a disused merry-go-round.

For a moment, he thought he was still asleep. Then he realised he was stuck to the thing, that he was definitely awake, and that Moriarty had a weird sense of humour.

John's arms were around the pony's head and linked by handcuffs. He could move about a little, but only as far as the pole that connected the golden head to the top of the ride. His feet were strapped tightly in the stirrups.

A glance right and left showed he was in an enormous warehouse slash fairground-graveyard. The place was mouldy and dusty and crammed with pieces of big wheel, brightly coloured stalls, crushed multi-coloured plastic hats, clown shoes, an empty human-sized fish bowl, a precarious pile of red and black dodgem cars…

"I wanted something with a children's theme," came Moriarty's sing-song voice as he appeared from behind a candyfloss stall, holding a rifle.

Moriarty aimed and shot John and John flinched, even though he knew it was just a fairground water pistol. Moriarty giggled like a schoolboy as John screwed his eyes shut at the icy onslaught and then shook his head to clear them.

"What is this place?"

"Trying to get information out of me, very _sensible_, doctor. The owner used to run a fairground and a magic show and spends thousands every year storing it all because he just can't let go. Pathetic, isn't it, sentiment?"

John sighed. "Back to that again are we? Sentiment's so illogical, blah blah blah. For someone so apparently unsentimental, you seem pretty attached to Sherlock."

Moriarty ignored this and returned to his whimsical tone, as if he was talking to anyone and everyone who might be listening, not just John. "Children, children, children. John and Mary are having one, Mary and I had one. Mary killed one."

"No," said John. "No, she wouldn't."

Moriarty just laughed.

"Wouldn't she? You followed the trail of breadcrumbs I left you, you read the fairytale. How well do you really know her, Johnny Boy?"

"Well enough," said John.

And he realised that he meant it. He didn't know everything about Mary, but he knew she wouldn't kill a child and he'd give her the benefit of the doubt with all of this until he heard her side of the story. He'd be damned if he was going to let Moriarty tell him what to think about his own wife.

Yes. He would give her the benefit of the doubt. And give himself the benefit of the doubt that he wouldn't have married a child killer.

As for the rest of the story…

He closed his eyes.

"Am I boring you Johnny?" said Moriarty, squirting him with the pistol.

"Yeah, you kind of are," said John.

"You shouldn't be bored at a fairground, that would be so sad."

The ride lit up, the music started, and John's gold pony started bobbing up and down, going around in a circle, following the carriage in front.

When he was out of sight of Moriarty, on the other side of the ride, John yanked at the metal pole in the pony's head, but it was stuck fast. When the ride got round to being out of sight again, he tried again, and again, and again. The fourth time he came back around to the front, Moriarty was gone, leaving John to the gentle ebb and flow of the merry-go-round.

The pole was impossible, so he turned his attention to the handcuffs. His hands were too big to pull through, but he could worry the chain against a chink in the metal pole. It was probably futile, but it was better than sitting back and waiting to die, and so he rubbed away, the sound of metal-on-metal drowned out by the irritating cheerful tinkle of the ride repeating over and over.

He decided, suddenly, that he wanted to know if he was gay or not before he died.

A voice in his head chided that now was not the time to be thinking about his sexuality, but he'd be damned if he'd die repressed and confused.

In many ways, it was actually the ideal time to think about it, he reasoned. If he couldn't be honest with himself when he was facing death, then when could he?

Besides, it would distract him from the fear that was spreading through his gut. The terror that Moriarty was going to kill them all. John's baby, Sherlock, Mary, John, John's baby, John's baby daughter.

Fear would make him crazy, reckless, more likely to make mistakes. He pushed it down into the depths of his subconscious.

Instead, he worked the handcuffs as quickly as he could, the chafing at his wrists sharpening his resolve, and let himself feel, just _feel,_ anything other than fear, and determined to observe the feelings without judging or questioning or challenging. Like Sherlock Holmes, he'd twist theories to suit facts rather than facts to suit theories.

First, he thought of Mary.

She was fun and fun-loving and they laughed together. Her conversation was interesting, their banter kept him on his toes. She inspired him to be better, she didn't mollycoddle him or nag him or hold him back. She was adventurous and tough and kind. She was carrying his child; they had made a child together.

As for the physical side, yes, he thought she was attractive. Not drop-dead gorgeous, but nice-looking, and her personality made her sexy. And naked. Yes, he liked that as well. Breasts were good, he definitely liked those.

When he thought of her, he had a range of feelings: like, love, attraction, attachment, irritation, disappointment, uncertainty, fear, sadness.

Okay, so he fancied Mary, he loved Mary. Mary if she _didn't_ turn out to be a child-killer, that was, the Mary that he thought he knew.

Next, he thought of Sherlock.

And he smiled.

The man was crazy, one of a kind. Who was so arrogant that they made up their own profession? Who would go jumping across rooftops to chase down murderers, as a hobby? Who would shoot the walls because they were bored? Who could be such a genius when it came to detective work and so useless when it came to social situations or general knowledge? Who else insisted that caring was beneath them, yet risked their life to protect their friends?

As for the physical side, yes, he thought Sherlock was attractive; sexy. Intimidatingly so. As for Sherlock naked, he didn't know, but he was interested in knowing.

When he thought of him, he felt: _Wow_. A gut-wrenching pull towards him. A burning behind his eyes - what if he never saw him again? Happiness. Happy that he had met him, that he had known him, even if it was the end.

Okay, so he fancied Sherlock, he loved Sherlock.

Conclusion: bi.

Obvious.

John laughed out loud. It seemed ridiculous that it had taken him nearly four decades to figure it out. The evidence had always been there, men had always been attractive, it's just that he'd never fallen in love with one before.

He sighed, not stopping the grinding of metal-on-metal for even one second.

Typical, he thought. You wait all your life to find 'the one' and then two come along at the same time when you're about to get killed by a madman who's obsessed with them both.

* * *

Well whaddaya think? I actually based John's thought processes on my own when I finally came out to myself as bi. Strange how being assumed straight all your life, and being bombarded with bi stereotypes, can make it difficult to realise that actually, yeah, I'm not that stereotype, I'm just me, but I'm me _and_ I'm bi. Because of that, I find it totally canon-believable that John could be bi and not have realised or accepted it yet in the show. Hope you agree :)


	22. Attempt

Chapter warning/spoiler at the very bottom of the page.

* * *

Sherlock had to break out.

Of course, he had figured out how to do it ages ago, but this was the first time he'd been out of his locked cell at night and besides, he would prefer to get let out officially so that he could return to his life rather than live on the run.

He ran through several scenarios, settled on the seventeenth... no, the fifteenth actually, the fifteenth was better... and set off towards the kitchen.

It was still taped off, but evidence had been gathered, photos had been taken, and there was no longer any need for a guard.

He picked the lock and slipped through the door.

The body and blood had been cleaned away. The place would probably be back in operation by tomorrow.

He pictured the crime scene photo again momentarily - Jonesy had turned to get something. What?

He spared a quick glance at the worktop where the rolling pin had been, but that was all. There was no time for Jonesy's murder case when John was in danger.

The lights flickered on.

Sherlock spun around - into a frying pan swinging right into his face. He was knocked off his feet and lay on the cold tile floor for a moment, overlapping the invisible outline of Jonesy's long-gone corpse. A dull, thudding ache spread through his temples and the room spun anti-clockwise.

Great, just what he needed, another concussion on top of his concussion.

He focused on a stray piece of dusty, dry pasta on the floor, to keep himself from slipping off into unconsciousness.

"This isn't a good time, Dicky," groaned Sherlock. "Look, I have a plan. How would you like to escape?"

Dicky growled and booted him in the side, sending a rip of sharp pain through his abdomen. Sherlock curled around it, panting, and the movement jolted his aching ribs.

"You think I'm stupid?" Dicky demanded.

"Well..."

"I could call the guards, get you sent back to solitary for breaking into here."

"And yourself too, for assault."

Dicky booted Sherlock again. "Think you're so fucking clever, don't you, faggot."

This time Sherlock stayed silent, not sure if it was self-preservation or the fact he was focused on his breathing, on stilling his dizzy vision. If he could just catch his breath a moment - ah.

Sherlock swung across and yanked the man's leg, pulling him to the ground. Dicky let out a yell as he landed and the pair scrambled for the upper hand. Dicky was stronger, but Sherlock could think faster, even with the fuzzy head.

Moments later, he had the other prisoner face down on the ground and was straddling him, pulling his wrists together to tie them up with a torn-off strip of potato sacking and wrinkling his nose against the stench of the Dicky's stale sweat.

The only sound was their panting from the exertion of the tussle.

Then Dicky bucked him off and before Sherlock knew it, their positions were reversed. He struggled under the other man's weight, even tried the same bucking move, but he just didn't have the same upper body strength. Dicky yanked Sherlock's arms back and started binding them with the sacking, in a ridiculous series of lumpy knots.

Dicky grabbed his hair and yanked his neck back. "Try to bugger me will you?" he hissed right into Sherlock's ear.

"Don't flatter yourself," spat Sherlock back.

And Dicky slammed his face into the tiles. Sherlock's nose crunched and blood slid down the back of his throat into his mouth. He spat it out.

The second time, he managed to turn his head, but it still bloody well hurt, and his head was spinning again.

"Think you're too good for me, do ya?"

Sherlock's chest fluttered with what he recognised as anxiety. Sometimes it was a curse seeing everything so clearly. He knew exactly what Dicky was going to do. And sure enough, the other man grabbed hold of the waist band of his jogging bottoms and pulled them down.

It was even harder to struggle with his trousers round his knees, but he tried anyway.

Dicky leaned in close, pressing him to the ground with an elbow in his back, his erection bulging against Sherlock's naked thigh.

"Get off!" demanded Sherlock, as if he had any say in the matter. "Get off me!"

Dicky just laughed. "Thought you liked this sort of thing."

He yanked Sherlock's legs apart and wedged himself between them, stroked his backside as if they were lovers. Sherlock felt sick.

"Stop it!" Sherlock shouted.

"Yes, do stop it," said a voice from the doorway.

A shot, muffled with a silencer, knocked Dicky off him, dead.

Sherlock looked up to see Mrs. Chapman, hand shaking, face hardened with resolve.

He almost laughed at the mixed feeling he was experiencing. On the upside, he didn't have to be worried about being raped any more. On the downside, he was now at the mercy of a murderer with a gun.

"Get up."

"There's a bleeding corpse on my back."

"You won't trick me into coming closer," said Chapman. "Get on with it."

She was nervous, desperate. The nervous ones were always more dangerous. Less predictable. Sherlock wrenched his hands out of the sacking - it didn't make the best bond, he'd just grabbed it because it was close by. A few bucks and a bit of wriggling and Dicky was off of him, more or less, gaping at nowhere with blood and brains and bone splattered on his clothes, his face, Sherlock's back.

Sherlock pulled his jogging pants up as he stood and tightened the drawstring. Chapman just watched the whole time, keeping the gun trained on him, holding it with both hands.

"You were in my office," she said, "snooping around, what did you find?"

"You've been bringing in cocaine through Dobson Wholesale deliveries."

She swore. "Me and Dobby were packing it in. Too risky."

"And framing me for murder's not?"

Sherlock took a step towards her.

"Stay where you are!" she hissed. "It wasn't murder - it was defence. And who cares anyway, you're all killers aren't you?"

Sherlock frowned, hearing his own excuse for killing Magnussen thrown back at him.

Chapman continued: "Dicky was giving Jonesy grief about the supply ending. Jonesy was giving me grief about the same. There was talk of them confessing, doing a deal for a shorter sentence. Then you started poking your nose in, hanging out with Jonesy, meddling with Dicky. If I didn't do something about it all I'd have been screwed."

"So you killed Jonesy and tried to frame me. I'd get sent to a higher security prison before I discovered anything, Jonesy couldn't name you to the police. But why kill Dicky? He didn't know you were involved."

It only took him a moment. "Of course. Second time lucky. During Jonesy's murder I was supposed to be alone, cleaning the rec room, but I ruined it by trading for library duty and gaining an alibi. Tonight I was out of my cell – the perfect opportunity to set Dicky loose on me. Everyone knows he hates me, giving me a motive. Added bonus, he couldn't name Jonesy as his coke source and lead me – or the police – to you."

"Not as stupid as you thought, am I?" Chapman said.

"Well…" Sherlock said, unconvinced.

Chapman frowned.

"There's just one problem Chapman. A big one. My prints aren't on that gun."

"You're going to help me," she said.

"Am I?" said Sherlock.

"We're gonna move things about a bit. When the police look at this crime scene, all the evidence will point to you," she said.

"I'll just tell them the truth."

She grinned. "I hear you had a psychotic episode. Think anyone's going to believe what you say?"

"I won't help you set me up," insisted Sherlock.

"Oh really?" She waved the gun.

The split-second that the gun was aimed away from him, Sherlock threw the frying pan and knocked it from her hands. She squealed as the pistol went skidding under the oven, and he was on her.

Chapman threw a couple of punches, but Sherlock just grabbed hold of her shoulders and head-butted her, knocking her out cold and sending himself staggering back with yet another wave of dizziness.

He sat down on the floor for a moment to collect himself.

He figured that even he needed a breather whilst sitting between the corpse of his would-be rapist and an unconscious murderer, with a black eye, bruised ribs, a broken nose, a spinning head, and having almost been sexually assaulted and shot by two separate criminals.

He would've preferred to be at his best going up against Moriarty, but there was nothing to be done about it. Time was running out and he would have to go as he was. At least he had a gun and an insane adrenaline rush to keep him going.

Speaking of which, he crawled over to the oven and reached around underneath, pushing through grease and bits of old, blackened food, until his fingers touched the cold metal of the silencer.

He looked over to Chapman. It wouldn't do to have her waking up and coming after him or meddling with the crime scene. He removed her belt and radio, tossed the latter aside and used the former to tie her hands firmly together. He dragged her a couple of feet to the table, which was bolted to the floor, and tied her to it.

Realising he'd need money and civvies, he took her purse and jacket too. The coat was too short and too baggy, but his prison tracksuit hardly made him a fashion icon to begin with.

He spared one last glance at the worktop that Jonesy had been going towards when he turned his back on Chapman. Sherlock spotted a point where the pattern was worn, possibly from a hand touching it more frequently than the rest of the surface. He did the same, and his fingers found a Taser taped under the counter.

If Jonesy had been a few seconds faster, Chapman would be in jail right now and Jonesy would still be alive.

Sherlock didn't intend to make the same mistake with Moriarty.

* * *

WARNING (for those who scrolled down for it): attempted rape.  
If you'd rather not read the chapter because of this then PM (private message) me for a summary.


	23. Defeat

John rushed around the warehouse, ducking behind a ticket booth, then a magician's saw box, picking up useful bits and bobs like a rope and a sharp piece of broken glass, and peering around to make sure he wasn't about to get his head blown off. Moriarty had been known to plant bombs and use hidden snipers as back-up, so he was being as careful as you could be whilst going up against a criminal genius.

He found them sitting in the ghost train, a singular, trackless, goo-green carriage under the looming archway of its painted wooden display, dripping "Enter If You Dare!" in blood-red paint, the 'o' a poorly drawn devilish eyeball.

In the car were James Moriarty and Mary Watson.

Or Richard and Celia Brook.

At first glance they seemed to be chatting, and John's stomach lurched.

Once closer, he could see, even from the back of her head, in that way you knew those close to you inside out, that Mary was actually pissed off. Very pissed off. Better than her cosying up to the man, but he'd still much prefer that his wife and unborn child were far away from Moriarty.

He, on the other hand, wanted to be closer. He could _hear _she was pissed off now.

"Where is he?" she was demanding.

"I'm so hurt, darling. I thought we were having a nice catch-up and all you can do is talk about the new hubby."

"I swear to God..."

"He's close by," said Moriarty. "Closer than you think."

With that, he twisted around and stood up out of the carriage to face John, who stopped short his stealthy approach and eyed up his enemy.

"No kiss for your wife?" teased Moriarty.

"Not exactly the most romantic setting," said John.

"You don't fool me. A soldier and a C.I.A. Agent don't find romance with a takeout in front of Strictly Come Dancing."

"Crap, did you remember to tape it?" quipped John.

Mary chuckled. "Of course."

"Oh good, affectionate banter. It's so much better if you really do love each other. Because if you're wondering what all this is about," said Moriarty, "I just wanted you to know that you were shagging my sloppy seconds before I turned you into... maybe shoes, maybe a rug for Sherlock's carpet..." John caught Mary's eye. She nodded and flicked her head upwards, hand on her hip... "Especially as I know how much our dear Celia wanted to keep it all from you. That made it all the more tempting to ruin things for her. She really is..."

John jumped forward and punched Moriarty.

Moriarty moved back, touching his cheek with faint surprise, and John was on top of him, throwing him to the ground, grabbing him by the lapels and banging the back of his head against the damp cement slabs.

At the same time, Mary whipped out her ankle gun and shot into the high corners of the room, at the snipers she'd scoped out on her way in.

John pounded into Moriarty, putting all his rage into each punch.

Moriarty was laughing. But it didn't make his face any prettier as the skin split and bled into his eye and a tooth knocked out, filling his mouth, and John's fists, with red.

A bullet came back at Mary from the shadows, but she leapt behind the ghost train.

Moriarty flipped John over and started pounding back.

"Alright?" shouted John to Mary, trying to hold Moriarty off, dodge his fists.

She was shooting back up into the upper levels of the warehouse. A scream and the sound of a man crashing two storeys down onto concrete indicated that she had met her mark. "Peachy!" she yelled, but her voice betrayed her breathlessness. Eight and a half months pregnant wasn't the time to get into a shoot-out.

John had the upper hand again. Moriarty might be Sherlock's intellectual equal, but the man didn't usually get his hands dirty and neither of the geniuses could match John in a fight. A few slugs to the gut, an uppercut to the jaw and John flipped him over like a pancake and stuck a knee in his back.

Moriarty wasn't laughing any more. He was gasping.

After all, underneath all his genius and bravado, he was only human like everybody else.


	24. Fear

As Sherlock arrived at the warehouse an ambulance was just leaving, sirens blazing. He turned, gaped and, heart beating fast, pulled out the cheap phone he'd bought on the way with Chapman's cash, and dialed.

"This is Inspector Lestrade, authorisation code 2976573," Sherlock said. "I need to know the destination of an ambulance heading out of Faxton St., London. No I can't bloody-well hold, it's an emergency! Okay fine, I'll hold, but if he dies before I get there I'm holding you personally responsible."

The phone went silent.

Sherlock wasn't about to wait for the operator tell him what had happened to John, and so, while the phone was on hold, he ran up to the warehouse door to deduce it for himself.

The marks around the frame suggested multiple break-ins over the years, yet the locks had not been improved nor extra security put in place. The owner was attached to their possessions but apathetically, rather than passionately, and clearly had not been to the building for several years. Abandoned. A good place for a kidnap… or a murder.

The phone was still silent.

The door creaked and the corridor ahead showed drag marks with three sets of footprints in the dust. Two men had pulled John in here while he was unconscious - not dead, or why bring him here, why an ambulance? Moriarty had followed, casually, behind.

Sherlock followed the trail. It led to a large room full of old fairground equipment, mostly broken or broken down into more storable pieces. The only full, working ride was the merry-go-round, which dust patterns and the blinking lights showed had been switched on and used recently.

At this point, the footprints and drag marks were all over the place, going around, back and forth, into different directions. Knowing Moriarty, his lackeys had probably set up somewhere to cover him with guns while he taunted John in some way.

He looked for other clues.

One of the ride's figures, a golden horse, had fresh scrape marks on its bar. John had been held here, in handcuffs, but he had used the sharpness of the chip in the pole to break his chains and escape.

Sherlock's mouth quirked upwards.

The phone was _still_ silent.

There was a limit to the direction they could have gone in next if they had stayed in the building. Sherlock picked a door - a musty office full of cardboard boxes. He picked another door and walked into a second room, similar to the first, full of old fairground and magic show paraphernalia and two dead bodies, shot in the head and having fallen from a height.

Moriarty's lackeys taken out.

There was blood on the cement, by the ghost train. Sherlock rushed over, examined the patterns. It was smudged and erratic - clearly a fight.

John and another lackey?

But no, he'd only seen two extra sets of footprints and they were now two corpses.

Surely not - John and Moriarty? But who won?

"Figured it out yet?" came a voice.

Sherlock looked up to see Moriarty's head, bloody and bruised, poking out the end of a magician's box. His feet were coming out of the other end and there was a saw wedged down the middle of it as if he'd been cut in half.

Sherlock's smirked. "I have now."

"Including why John needed an ambulance? They did order me a ride too, but obviously the most needy person had to go first."

Sherlock frowned. The other end of the phone was still bloody silent.

He pulled out Chapman's gun and pointed it at Moriarty's head. Moriarty just stared at him through his fat, purple eye and Sherlock stared back.

When he had killed Magnussen, the path before him had been crystal clear. There was no evidence against the man and the only way to stop him was to destroy the records he was using to blackmail people. As those records were in Magnussen's head, his head was the thing that needed to be destroyed. Anything less and he would have been out of custody in no time at all, making the phone call that would have brutally destroyed John and Mary.

Was Moriarty different?

The phone made a noise. "Yes?" Sherlock demanded.

They gave him the name of the hospital.

"What's his status?"

"We don't have that information until they check in."

Sherlock hung up without thanks. He still had the gun on Moriarty.

He needed to make a decision fast.

Of course, Moriarty deserved to die.

But unlike with Magnussen, it was possible - difficult, but possible - to stop him without killing him. And John, Sherlock's moral barometer, hadn't killed the consulting criminal when he was defenseless. He'd trussed him up in a magician's box and called someone - Mycroft probably - to collect him, then rushed off in the ambulance.

Sherlock's heart was beating fast. Why would John need an ambulance? He was missing something, something important. It must have been bad for John to go off and leave Moriarty unguarded, to risk that. Really bad.

Every second he waited with Moriarty until Mycroft showed up was another second that John could be bleeding to death alone in a sterile white room.

Yet, if he left Moriarty before Mycroft showed up, there was a high chance the man would escape or one of his employees would come to rescue him. At some point, he would come after Sherlock again, come after John again.

If he killed Moriarty they were safe. But he was lowering himself to Moriarty's level, killing somebody who couldn't fight back, who he could defeat with his brains (and John's fists apparently) rather than a bullet.

After a moment's hesitation, he put the gun into his - well, Chapman's - jacket.

Moriarty laughed, mockingly.

"John couldn't kill me either. What's wrong with you both, it's so funny."

"We're not murderers," said Sherlock, simply, hoping that it was true.

"How adorable," said Moriarty. "Speaking of John, not going after him?"

"Soon," said Sherlock, curtly. "My brother will be here in a few minutes."

"A few minutes can be the difference between life and death," Moriarty taunted. "Yet if you leave me, I'll turn up again later like a bad penny. Ooh, a moral dilemma, Sherlock? You really are becoming like _them_, aren't you?"

It was infuriating the way that the man could push his buttons even bruised and bloody and tied up like a magician's assistant.

But whether he liked it or not, Moriarty's comment made Sherlock think.

He fingered the Taser in his pocket and thought of Jonesy reaching for it. A minute earlier and Jonesy would've have been able to incapacitate Chapman, save himself. Instead he turned, reached, got shot, died. His whole life was over because he didn't get there fast enough.

"I suppose I could go," Sherlock said to Moriarty, casually. "It's not like you're going anywhere."

"If you say so Sherlock," laughed Moriarty through his bloody teeth. "Cheerio!"

Sherlock's face was impassive as he Tasered Moriarty into a gibbering mess, and then unconsciousness.

"Just to make sure," he said.

...

As Sherlock left the warehouse, Mycroft arrived, simultaneous to a fully-armed SWAT team pouring out of a helicopter.

"He's in the room at the back," said Sherlock, and the men and women with the guns rushed into the building.

Mycroft and Sherlock stood outside.

"Alive?" Mycroft shouted over the whirr of the helicopter's blades.

"Barely," Sherlock shouted back.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "And you were leaving him unguarded and available for rescue by his associates. What could possibly be that important?"

It only took him a split second to figure out.

"Oh, of course, _John_. This really is getting out of hand. Sentiment put you in prison, Sherlock, and now this. You're getting sloppy."

"And you fat," said Sherlock, patting his brother's stomach as he pushed past him.

Sherlock walked away and didn't turn back. Mycroft frowned, thought a moment, then realised what had just happened and patted his jacket down.

Sure enough, Sherlock was on the other side of the street unlocking the door of Mycroft's personal vehicle. Mycroft rolled his eyes.

The SWAT team leader came rushing out of the warehouse.

"He's gone!" the SWAT leader yelled.

A moment later the helicopter was up in the air, searchlights scouring the grounds, while half the SWAT team ran around on foot, guns at the ready.

Sherlock was already in the car, doing a three-point turn.

"Sherlock," called Mycroft.

Sherlock pushed a button and the window slid down. He looked back at Mycroft humorlessly, like Mycroft was the one causing _him_ inconvenience.

"Are you going after Moriarty," Mycroft asked, "Or after John?"

Sherlock just rolled the window back up and put his foot on the accelerator.


	25. Goodbye

Sherlock raced around the corner and into the hospital ward corridor.

And there was John, alive and... alive. Alive! John, standing at the end of the hospital corridor, pacing. Sherlock took a moment just to watch him.

There was no one like John. Who else would laugh and go for a Chinese after killing a serial-murdering cabbie or stealing an ashtray from Buckingham Palace? Who else would be rude and unfriendly to Mycroft but bend over backwards to be polite to Mrs. Hudson? Who else knew when to follow ridiculous orders and when to give them? Who else jumped enthusiastically, head-first, into danger and adventure, yet in-between made cups of tea and insisted that the washing up was done?

Who else would say, 'Amazing!' when everyone else said, 'Piss off!'?

He started towards John, looking forward to the moment when John spotted him, realised he'd broken out of prison and spluttered with a mixture of admiration and admonition.

But John was going through a door.

Sherlock moved closer, until he could see through the glass. See... Mary. And the baby.

Of course. Mary had been at the warehouse too. It was Mary who needed the ambulance. Stupid!

John was looking at his wife and child with affection in his eyes.

Sherlock hung back in the corridor and imagined the rest. John holding his daughter for the first time. John and Mary grinning ear-to-ear and giggling. First the excitement of the kidnapping, the escape, the shoot-out, defeating Moriarty, then the excitement of meeting the daughter that he and Mary had made together. Later, he would no doubt say that it was the best moment of his life.

Sherlock couldn't compete with that.

Who else would marry an assassin with a sociopath for his best man?

The best man. He would never have all of John, but he would have that. And he supposed it would have to be good enough.

Never mind, he tried to tell himself. He was used to being alone, so having a best friend who liked, accepted and even challenged him was a damn sight better than he had ever expected to get.

He turned and walked slowly out of the hospital. Right into Lestrade.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade let out, and he stood gaping at the consulting detective.

"Yes, I've escaped from prison."

"I'm... speechless."

"Apparently not."

"I'm going to have to arrest you," said Lestrade, reluctantly.

"You can try," said Sherlock, deadpan.

They stared at each other for a moment, then Lestrade's shoulders sagged. "If anyone asks, I gave chase, but you evaded capture."

"They won't ask."

Sherlock jerked his head back up towards John and Mary's room in the hospital. "Give them a minute, will you?"

Lestrade looked at him strangely, but he nodded. And Sherlock slipped away.


	26. Hello

Mary had never seemed more amazing than with her damp hair plastered to her red face, body exhausted, eyes bright, holding their newborn baby daughter to her chest in a soft peach blanket.

John couldn't stop smiling. Mary couldn't stop smiling. They just watched the tiny person breathe in and out, in and out, in silence.

Eventually, Mary dragged her eyes up to John and asked, "Want to cuddle Tina?"

"I think you mean Frances," said John, as he leaned over and took her.

The baby - whatever her name would be - squirmed a little as John positioned her, but stayed fast asleep, her tiny creased face content as she rested in the crook of her daddy's arm.

Daddy. He couldn't believe that he was a dad.

Mary cleared her throat.

"Er... what Moriarty said, what you read. It wasn't true."

"I know."

"You do?"

"Of course," John said. "I don't know all the details, but I do know you, and... words can't... I'm just really sorry about little Danny, if that part was true, that he was yours and he died. I know that doesn't bring him back, but I am."

Mary looked away, eyes welling up. John took her hand with his free one. He squeezed and she squeezed back.

John's caring instinct told him to let the subject drop, but it was time for the secrets and lies to end. If this woman was going to be the mother of his child, he needed to know everything. "What did happen?" he asked.

"Now?"

"Why not?"

She sighed. "Okay. Yeah, I married him. That part's true."

John grimaced. Mary frowned.

"Sorry," said John. "Go on."

"It's not how you think," she said. "I was C.I.A. Gave up my identity, my family, my friends and three years of my life, to catch James Moriarty. The plan worked - we got close, we got married, Celia Cook and Richard Brook."

"So it was a sham?" John didn't hide his relief.

"It turned out Richard Brook wasn't Moriarty's pseudonym, he was his twin brother. We only had one grainy photograph of Moriarty to go on, one moment where he'd slipped a little, and the pair of them were pretty much identical."

She looked down at her fingernails and picked at them nervously.

"James and Richard had been separated as children after their mother's suicide. Richard didn't have a clue where James was, let alone that he'd become a consulting criminal. It... it was only a sham for me."

"Bloody hell," said John.

"Mind the language in front of Candace!" chided Mary.

"Sorry," said John. "And no."

"Linda?"

"No."

Mary smiled a little, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. She was lost in her unhappy memories: "Moriarty knew about the whole set-up of course, let it happen for a laugh, or to see if he could find out what the C.I.A. knew about him."

John squeezed her hand again.

"Richard was an alright bloke. Of course, I thought it was an act at the time. I was under orders to make it realistic… sleep with him I mean, but I couldn't take it that far. I made up a story about a sex phobia, told him he could sleep around if he needed to. He never did, though, as far as I know, even though he had women throwing themselves at him after every acting gig." She sighed. "Yeah, a pretty good bloke, really."

"You weren't to know," said John. No matter how nice Richard had been, John was very, very glad that his wife had not had sex with either Moriarty _or_ his identical twin brother.

Mary dismissed this with a sad little laugh.

"He wanted a child though, would never stop going on about it. The C.I.A. wanted me to pull out, but I refused - they cut me off and I carried on, dark."

"You went freelance," said John, remembering Magnussen's words.

"Yes. Richard and I adopted Danny. He was three when he came to live with us and he hid behind the curtains sucking his thumb. I coaxed him out with Floppy - a toy bunny, he called it Floppy later. Floppy was scared because he hadn't been to the house before and he needed a friend to show him around. When it worked, when he came out and reached out to... "

Mary's voice cracked.

She choked a little, pulling herself together. When she continued, her eyes were damp, but her face was hard. "One day, Danny was killed," she said, speaking as if she wanted to throw the words away as quickly as she could. "I wasn't C.I.A. any more - I was arrested by the local police. Framed. So I escaped custody and went into hiding, got a new identity and left my life and family behind for the second time."

So that was the terrible thing Magnussen was talking about, the murder Mary had apparently done off her own back.

"Richard was family?" John asked.

"It was strange," Mary said. "I thought he was Moriarty, so there was a mental barrier there that stopped me from ever properly falling for him. But emotions aren't so logical as that, are they? He was kind, funny, tough, fun, interesting. I... I don't know. I had to act like I felt something and then I couldn't tell whether I did or not."

"I know what you mean," said John. And he did. He had spent that long denying he had feelings for Sherlock that he had struggled to realise they were there. He had spent that long forcing himself to work at his marriage, that he didn't know how he really felt about it any more. Sometimes the act was so convincing that even the actor couldn't see through it to the truth.

"Who knows where he is now," Mary continued. "He went crazy and then disappeared. James probably killed him. Sorry, you don't want to hear about my ex, I'm sure."

"I do actually," said John. "No more secrets."

She caught his eye, gave him a small, sad smile.

"So... us meeting... was that a coincidence?" John found himself asking.

Mary looked away. "No," she said quietly. "I saw Richard Brook in the news and knew straight away that Moriarty was using his brother's name as a pseudonym. Thought you might know something I could use to take his network down. I'd already been in London a few years, so it was easy enough to... I'm sorry."

John just cleared his throat, not knowing what to say.

"Everything changed when I met you," she said. "I fell in love. That was real."

John just nodded.

"So," he said, slowly, realising. "When you... er, when you said, what was it? I wouldn't love you, if I read what was on the USB stick? Was it this, or was it the C.I.A. wet jobs?"

"You know about the C.I.A. wet jobs?"

John nodded.

Mary sighed. "Both, I guess, but mostly Brook. I mean, I married a man and adopted a child, dragging them both into a dangerous lie they knew nothing about. A lie that killed my child and drove my unsuspecting husband crazy. My next move? I ran away, leaving him to rot in an asylum and didn't even go to my baby's funeral. Even for C.I.A., that's pretty cold."

"You meant well," said John.

She gaped, incredulously. "Seriously? I meant well? That's your response."

John cocked his head apologetically.

He turned his attention to his daughter and her beautiful, sleeping face.

Mary watched him.

"There's something you're not telling me, isn't there?" she asked.

"I don't think now's the time," said John.

"That ship really has sailed," Mary pointed out.

John frowned.

"Um. Okay. I, uh... well. I think maybe..." He cleared his throat. "We need to... separate."

Mary whispered: "Because of Richard?"

"No! You were just doing your job. You made mistakes, but it was a difficult situation, an impossible situation."

"Then what?"

The tears held in her eyes, not quite falling.

"Sherlock," John said.

"I knew it!" she returned.

"No!" John protested automatically. "Not because I… No. It's because you _shot _Sherlock. I still don't want to admit this, but it's the truth... the inescapable truth. _You nearly killed my best friend_. Then you lied to my face. You hugged me, comforted me, visited him in the hospital with me - and I've just realised how terrifying that must that have been for him. Did you - what did you say to him? No, never mind, don't tell me."

Mary was crying, now.

"I wouldn't have done it if I wasn't sure," she said, grabbing his hand.

He shrugged her hand off. "How could you be sure?"

"I calculated," she said, as if it were that simple. "And I never miss."

"What about the things you couldn't control?" John asked. "What if the ambulance got stuck in traffic? What if he moved when the gun fired and the bullet hit him in the wrong place? What if he had a heart condition that you didn't know about? What if there were complications in surgery? What if he was stupid enough to break out to come after you and end up with internal bleeding?"

"Sherlock's fine, John. He's put it behind him. I thought you were happy with his explanation... our explanation."

"Happy?" John laughed, incredulous.

"Just a figure of speech," she said, quietly.

"He's my best friend, Mary. I already saw him die once and it nearly killed me. Explanation?" If it weren't for his sleeping daughter, he'd be shouting right about now. Instead, he dropped to whisper. "There is _no explanation_."

"You love Sherlock," Mary asked, like it wasn't even a question.

John hesitated. He wasn't ready to say it aloud, especially not to his wife. But he was sick of all the lies, and so he managed a nod. "That's not why..."

"He lied to you too," she said. "He put on the waterworks and let you think he'd killed himself, let you live with that misery for two years."

"Yes, yes he did. But trust isn't just about lying, it's about knowing someone. You were both wrong not to trust me with the truth, but there was one important difference."

"What?"

John took a deep breath. He'd finally figured it out, what had been bothering him, nibbling at his subconscious, telling him things weren't right.

"He did the wrong thing for the right reason, you did the wrong thing for the wrong reason. He lied to protect me, he shot Magnussen to protect us. You lied to me and shot Sherlock to protect yourself."

Mary got it then. It was over. Really over. She put a hand to her face, but her grief was visible through the gaps of her fingers. "John," she choked between sobs. "John."

And John, who never cried, found his eyes welling up for the second time that week.

"Here," he said. "Annabelle wants her mummy," and he passed the still-sleeping baby over, in the hope that she would bring some comfort to Mary.

"Annabelle," said Mary, and she held her close.


	27. Sealed

It was late - or rather, early - when Sherlock slipped back into his cell. You could get into them easily enough, you just couldn't get back out.

He faced the half-open door from the inside, eyes closed, and breathed a deep sigh, in and out, taking in the evening's events; the week's events. It seemed like months ago that he had been working with Jonesy in the kitchen - or rather, talking to Jonesy while Jonesy worked. But it had been less than a week.

Only yesterday, Jonesy got up and went to work and had no clue that it was the day that he would die.

Dicky had been alive then too, Moriarty had been free, John's baby had been a bump under Mary's shirt, Sherlock hadn't had a broken nose.

He would certainly take it over a boring week. But perhaps he would have enjoyed it more if it weren't for all the beatings, emotional and physical, and the weird medication side-effects.

It made him think too, of how quickly things could change. One minute you were alive, the next dead. One minute you were free, the next defeated. One minute you were - maybe, just maybe - the second most important person in your best friend's life. The next, their priorities shifted and you'd been demoted to third, and possibly the back-burner.

If prison had taught him anything it was to appreciate life while you had it.

That, and don't kill people.

Of course, he had escaped, he could have stayed out there. Problem was, escape would still be a prison. He had lived under cover before, a fugitive of sorts, and it had been damn lonely. Okay, so it was better than prison, but it wasn't freedom.

He needed to get out honest, so that he could live his own life, his real life. The life that had John Watson in it.

Just as a friend though. Life was short, yes - too short to risk losing a friendship.

He stared back out into the deserted, dimly-lit corridor. Once he shut the cell door, that was it. It had been easy enough to escape from the poorly-secured medical wing in the middle of the night, but the cell would seal him in and return him to the guarded routine that was the monotony and humiliation of prison existence.

He had made his decision though. He slid the door shut behind him and it beeped, sealing him inside in the dark.

He climbed into his bunk. The sheets were cold to the touch and he shoved an arm under his pillow, fattening it up to cushion his aching head. His ribs hurt whether he was lying on the opposite side, or on his back, and he didn't have any pain killers. He was exhausted, but what with the pain and the night's events churning around in his concussed brain like a neon slide-show with a rowdy soundtrack, he didn't count on sleep.

When he had just settled in, Big Joe called him from the bottom bunk: "Oy Holmes, where you been?"

"Hospital wing," Sherlock said.

"You hear about Chapman?" Joe asked.

Huh. Big Joe never spoke to him, but apparently the gossip was irresistible.

"What about him?" said Sherlock, deliberately misunderstanding him.

"No, Mrs. Chapman."

"What about _her_ then," said Sherlock.

"Killed someone tonight. Dicky Markham? She let him out of his cell on some pretense or other and shot him. They say she probably killed that chef Jonesy too. Someone else was in on it, tied her up and took the gun."

"Well I never," said Sherlock, flatly.

As he'd hoped, the scandal had distracted everyone from his temporary absence.

The gun he'd wiped off and hidden where even the police could find it; his hairs and fibres on Dicky and vice versa could be explained by their previous altercation. Chapman was going down and Sherlock was definitely in the clear.

"You don't sound too surprised," said Joe.

"We're in prison surrounded by murderers, Joe. One more doesn't shock me."

Joe humphed, reflecting.

"I'm not a murderer," Joe said. "Not really. I was an alcoholic, didn't know what I was doing half the time, wouldn't have done it if I was sober. Doesn't really count does it?"

"It's really more about what you did rather than how you feel about it. Did you kill someone?"

"Well, yeah," said Joe, reluctantly.

"Then I guess you're a murderer."

Sherlock could hear Joe frowning in the dark.

"How about you Holmes," he said eventually, "are you a murderer?"

Sherlock sighed. He didn't really want to confide, but there was a lot on his mind, there was nobody else, and Joe felt like a disembodied voice coming out of the dark rather than a real person. "The dictionary definition is 'the unlawful pre-meditated killing of one human being by another'. The question is, how far in advance must you think it for it to be pre-meditated?"

"How far did you think it?"

"A few seconds. But I can think quite a lot in a few seconds."

"Then I guess you're a murderer too," said Joe. Sherlock knew Joe would have preferred it if they'd convinced each other of their mutual innocence and that he was just parroting Sherlock's words back to him as a small revenge.

But still... a murderer.

"I suppose so," he said, quietly. "I really wish that I wasn't."

He didn't wish that Magnussen wasn't dead, but he did wish that he hadn't been the one to do it, that he'd been struck by freak lightening or fallen asleep on the train tracks or tripped into a well. Despite what he'd said to Joe about feelings being irrelevant, they had to count for something, didn't they?

"Oh, I forgot to tell you," said Joe. "You have a letter. Looks official."

Was it... could it be...?

Sherlock jumped out of bed, grabbed first the bedpost to steady himself as the movement sent his head spinning and then the letter itself. He held it up to the fire escape light. Joe rolled over to watch, curious.

Sherlock scanned down the page until he got to the part he was looking for:

_Approved._

"Yes!" he exclaimed.

"What?" asked Joe. "Not your parole hearing, surely?"

"Don't ask Joe, don't get."

And Sherlock Holmes smiled for the first time in what felt like years.


	28. Truth

John and Sherlock were standing in the waiting room at court, Sherlock looking like a designer-suit model (albeit in handcuffs) and John looking like he'd borrowed hand-me down trousers and a jacket from a deceased uncle.

John wanted to reach out and touch Sherlock's arm, but instead he stood up straight and rigid, flexing his hands.

A guard stood at the door, chewing gum and playing with his phone, but John tried to pretend he and Sherlock were alone because it was the first time they'd been face to face, without a safety screen, since Sherlock had got onto that plane, joked that Sherlock's was a girl's name.

Had John loved him then? He supposed that he had. Since he'd come out to himself as bi and admitted his love for Sherlock, it was like he'd cleaned a pair of fogged-up glasses. Every memory of Sherlock was tinted with a warm glow, when he looked at him he felt a tug - emotional, physical, everything.

He didn't know how to be natural, now. Before, he would've just touched his arm, thought nothing of it, but now he worried that Sherlock would be able to tell that there was more to it than just a friendly squeeze. He'd look John in the eye and just know.

And how would he react? Remind John that he was married to his work? Pity him? Laugh in his face? Would it be awkward, their friendship destroyed by the revelation?

John was happy being Sherlock's friend, he'd decided to stick with that. He didn't want to go through losing the platonic closeness they had, or losing him completely, just for the sake of adding intimacy and sex to their already good relationship.

Although the thought of being able to hold Sherlock, kiss Sherlock, whenever he wanted to, made the risk seem almost worth it.

Almost.

Sherlock was staring at him, slightly puzzled. "Problem?"

John had a lot of problems right now. He decided to start with the most immediate one and pulled Sherlock's medical file out of his jacket. "How much of this is true, Sherlock?" he whispered, sparing a glance to the guard, who was engrossed in a game of Candy Crush.

Sherlock's face was impassive. "You're the doctor, you figure it out."

"I'm risking my career here," John complained.

"We don't need to lie, John, we'll let the others do that for us."

"It's still... dodgy."

"If it comes to it, I'll confess to blackmailing you," said Sherlock.

John couldn't help but grin.

Sherlock grinned back. "How's Mary?"

"Single," said John.

Sherlock's eyes widened, but he didn't comment. "And... the baby?"

"You can't remember my daughter's name, can you?" John admonished.

"Hannah...?" tried Sherlock.

"Annabelle," John corrected.

"Yes, of course, Annabelle," Sherlock said without a hint of shame. "How is she?"

"You tell me," said John. "Lestrade says he saw you at the hospital."

Sherlock hesitated, as if he thought John was angry, and John didn't know if it was wrong that it made him love Sherlock even more. Then Sherlock said, simply, "You were in danger", and John's heart exploded.

"Er, thank you." John cleared his throat. "And not that I've forgiven you, for the other thing, but I've never said thanks for it either. I mean, it was bloody stupid - and if you ever even... Well, anyway, just... thanks."

That was about as verbally demonstrative as he could manage, but he knew that they both knew the thank you was for Sherlock faking his own death and going through hell to save him.

"I shouldn't have bothered," said Sherlock. "You can clearly take care of yourself."

"I did do a number on Moriarty, didn't I," chuckled John.

"Which is why you need to be careful," said Sherlock. "He'll be back."

"So, why didn't you kill him?" asked John.

"Why didn't you?" returned Sherlock, with a small smile.

"Any update from your brother?" John asked.

Sherlock didn't respond.

"You're still not speaking to him?" John said, exasperated. "Not even to find out who helped Moriarty escape, whether he's got any leads?"

"If - when - Moriarty comes back, I'll be the first to know about it, not Mycroft."

"And what about a little intervention with all this?" John asked, indicating the courthouse. "It'd be nice to have a little back-up in there."

"Unnecessary."

"It could've been even more unnecessary. Who breaks back _into _prison, by the way?"

They giggled.

"Someone who knows they can escape by the book," said Sherlock.

John turned serious: "I hope you're right about this."

"Of course I'm right," said Sherlock, but John knew him well enough to see that there was a flicker of doubt there, a flicker of fear. John felt it too. Because if Sherlock didn't make parole, it was a decision between life in prison or, if he could manage a second escape, life on the run.

John wouldn't be able to go with him. He had Annabelle to think of now.

That meant that if Sherlock didn't make parole, this moment in the waiting room could be the last time they ever stood face to face, the last time they could touch.

John looked into Sherlock's eyes for a moment. His hand twitched towards him.

But then it was time to go in.

The guard took Sherlock by the arm and Sherlock let himself be led to the hearing room. John's stomach lurched at that small indignity. His best friend was really desperate and he would do anything that he could to help him - of course he would – medical career be damned.

The room was small but grand, with wooden walls and paintings of old legal types looming over them, labeled in brass. In the centre, a table, around it, the judge, barristers and doctors. The guard showed John and Sherlock to their seats.

A younger man, twenty-something, stood and explained that they were gathered to present evidence to the judge on the matter of Sherlock's Holmes' incarceration. The question was, should he continue with his life sentence for first-degree murder, or should he be granted early release on parole?

He then introduced the room, starting with himself, Jeff Daniels, a barrister representing the court. Next to him was Rebecca Myers, another young barrister, representing the prisoner.

Opposite sat the three doctors. John himself, introduced as Dr. Watson, the prisoner's G.P.; to his left, Dr. Carver, the psychologist for Flitwick Prison, advising on the prisoner's mental state and his conduct during his incarceration; and, to his right, Dr. Jamieson, a criminal psychiatrist, there to advise the judge.

The judge, Mathieson, a grey-haired, stern-faced woman, sat at the head of the table in a huge, grand old chair. John immediately imagined the chair was a toilet - a mental trick to remind himself that she was just a person like the rest of them.

Even if she was the person who would decide whether his future with Sherlock would always involve handcuffs, guards and a bullet-proof screen.

Lastly, Daniels introduced Sherlock Holmes, the prisoner, convicted of first-degree murder (John flinched), sitting at the foot of the table with his hands on his lap (hiding the handcuffs, John thought, to make himself seem more respectable).

They would all take an oath, then Holmes would be questioned first, followed by Dr. Watson and Dr. Carver, after which the judge would make her decision.

John's heart was thumping hard in his chest as he put his hand on the Bible and took his turn to swear that he would not lie during his testimony. He wondered whether Sherlock's plan would work - could they get out of this by only speaking the truth?

If Sherlock felt the same concern as he swore, it didn't show.

"Mr. Daniels, please begin," the judge said.

Daniels asked: "Mr. Holmes, tell us about the crime that got you sent to Flitwick Prison."

Sherlock didn't miss a beat.

"I was hired by a private client, a barrister who was being blackmailed by Charles Magnussen. My investigation turned up no incriminating evidence, but did attract the unwanted attentions of Magnussen, who made threats against Dr. Watson, his wife, and by extension, his unborn child. I had to protect them."

John's held onto Sherlock's medical file, gripping it tightly to stop himself from clenching his fists.

"Why didn't you go to the police?" Daniels asked.

"The police are..."

"Sherlock!" John whispered, warningly.

"The police knew about Magnussen already. They had tried and failed to find evidence against him. I had tried and failed to find evidence against him. Magnussen was too clever, too powerful, too well-connected. The only way to stop him was to kill him, and so I killed him."

"Was Magnussen physically harming yourself or anybody else at the time?"

"No," said Sherlock.

"You just shot him, point blank."

"Yes," said Sherlock.

"No further questions," said Daniels.

Sherlock's legal representative, Myers, took over. "You say that you killed Magnussen to protect Dr. Watson and his family?"

"Yes."

John stared pointedly at the table in front of him.

Seriously. How many times had Sherlock Holmes risked himself to save him? He wanted to hug him... but they were in a court room, sort of, and so they both looked pointedly ahead at the paintings on the walls, avoiding eye contact.

Sadly, he knew that even if it weren't for the courtroom, he still wouldn't have dared to pull Sherlock into his arms.

Myers continued: "How did you know Magnussen was a threat to John?"

"He was flicking him in the face," said Sherlock.

The judge looked puzzled and John realised how crazy it sounded if you weren't there, couldn't see how Magnussen was showing that he had John on his knees, how badly John had wanted to punch him, end him, and had done nothing, because to react was to condemn his wife and child.

"How do you feel about the crime now?" Myers asked.

"It depends," said Sherlock.

"Let me rephrase," said Myers. "Dr. Carver has suggested that the conspiracy you built up around Magnussen was a delusion."

John stared pointedly at the table.

"It wasn't," said Sherlock.

"If it were, how would you feel?"

"Guilty."

John looked up at that.

"You would regret what happened?" Myers asked.

"Of course," said Sherlock. "I've dedicated my life to solving crimes, to _catching _murderers. If I was to become one myself, I would be lowering myself to their level."

John knew that Sherlock was telling the truth. That's what they'd agreed after all.

There was a line. A line that neither of them would cross. John still wasn't sure if they'd drawn the line in the same place, or the right place, but either way, they'd each drawn it.

"No further questions," said Myers.

It was John's turn next, and Daniels started:"Dr. Watson, as Mr. Holmes' doctor, would you say that he was suffering from an episode of psychosis at the time of the murder?"

"I'm not that sort of doctor," said John.

"Then why did you prescribe zamasaproxyl, a drug used to suppress the symptoms of psychosis, to Mr. Holmes, after the murder?"

"He asked me to. As he had an indefinite repeat prescription there was no diagnosis required." John poked a finger at the medical file. Of course, he had thought it was a treatment for depression at the time, not psychosis - the drug could be used for either condition. "It's all in here."

"It didn't occur to you that after killing somebody, Mr. Holmes should see a psychiatrist for an update on his condition?"

"Like I said, I'm not that sort of doctor," said John, irritated. Maybe it should have occurred to him, but he hadn't had access to the medical file at the time and still didn't know how much of it was true.

"No further questions," said Daniels.

Myers took over. "Mr. Holmes was taking the wrong medication, damasaproxyl, for two years, up until you re-prescribed the correct drug, zamasaproxyl. Did you notice any change in Mr. Holmes during that time?"

"Objection," said Daniels. "Dr. Watson is here as the prisoner's doctor, not as his friend."

Myers had her answer ready for that one: "It's true that Dr. Watson is in a better position than most doctors to advise us about Mr. Holmes' condition, but his observations will still help the judge to make her decision."

"Over-ruled," said the judge. "Please answer the question, doctor."

John nodded. "Yes, he seemed different."

"Give us some examples of his behaviour," asked Myers.

"He dressed up as a waiter to gate-crash my marriage proposal," John started.

"You have to admit, it was funny," said Sherlock.

"Funny for you, maybe," said John. "Er, he also can't seem to get the story straight about how he faked his own death to beat James Moriarty. Every time he tells it, it's different."

The Judge and the psychiatrist exchanged a look.

"He had a girlfriend," said John, "which was weird in itself."

"That's hardly unusual John," Sherlock complained.

"It is if you're gay."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Anyway," said John. "It turned out he was just pretending to like her to get closer to Magnussen. That's how obsessed he was, he was convinced Magnussen was this evil criminal, even though we couldn't find any evidence."

"If only we had found it," said Sherlock. "It would be Magnussen in jail instead of me."

Of course, John's examples were not unusual of Sherlock. But he hadn't been lying when he'd said Sherlock had been different. He'd been kinder, more pleasant, more sociable, yet still every bit the brilliant, arrogant dick that he'd fallen in love with.

John knew that it was Sherlock's loneliness abroad that had knocked down some of his walls of defence, letting John - and Mary, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, even his family - in a little. It was amazing to watch, to experience.

Yes, he'd been different. He'd become comfortable enough to be himself.

"No further questions," said Myers.

It was Dr. Carver, the prison psychologist's turn.

Daniels started again: "When was Mr. Holmes first sent to you for treatment?"

"After he had a mental breakdown in solitary confinement," said Carver.

John frowned - he hadn't known about that.

Daniels was keen to ask about that: "Solitary confinement? How was Mr. Holmes' behaviour, then, in Flitwick Prison?"

"Not great," admitted Carver. "He frequently got into fights with other prisoners and had been sent to solitary for being verbally aggressive towards a female guard and knocking her radio out of her hands while she was trying to call for assistance."

"What was the reason for attacking the guard?"

"He only hurt the radio, not the guard," corrected Carver. "He was demanding an extra phone call because he believed that Dr. Watson was in danger."

John gritted his teeth.

"Were you in danger, Dr. Watson?" asked Daniels.

"When was it?" John asked.

"That time the phone got cut off," said Sherlock.

Oh, that time.

"Er... well, I was at Madame Tussaud's," said John, hoping they didn't probe further.

"No further questions," said Daniels, with a smirk.

Myers continued with the same topic: "Is it true that the female guard, Chapman, has since been arrested for killing two prisoners?"

"Yes," said Carver.

"Hardly a damsel in distress, then," said Myers.

"Hardly," agreed Dr. Carver.

"Tell us about your assessment of Mr. Holmes' mental condition, your treatment, and his progress so far," she said.

"Unable to contact Dr. Watson to question him on the nature of Mr. Holmes' breakdown, I was initially forced to restrain Mr. Holmes for his own safety."

John started and looked to his friend, but Sherlock stared straight ahead as if they were discussing the weather, not his mental state.

"On reviewing his medical file, I discovered that several years ago he had been a cocaine addict, had been diagnosed with drug-induced psychosis and prescribed zamasaproxyl to be taken indefinitely.

At first, I thought that Mr. Holmes had been using cocaine again and that this had triggered a delusional episode, but blood tests proved otherwise and I have no reason to doubt that he has been clean for several years."

Sherlock caught John's eye, looking a little smug for all the times John had doubted him.

Carver continued: "What was a concern, however, was that there was a two-year gap in his medication. Mr. Holmes had been abroad and had been prescribed damasaproxyl, a drug intended to treat psoriasis, instead of zamasaproxyl for psychosis, meaning that he was at risk of the condition returning."

Jamieson, the criminal psychiatrist, spoke up for the first time: "Psychosis isn't necessarily dangerous," he said. "Mr. Holmes may have been suffering paranoid delusions about Magnussen, but he still made the decision to shoot him in the head."

"There's more," said Carver. She slid a document over to the Jamieson. "These are the results of a recent trial of damasaproxyl, which led to it being disapproved for use in the UK. The volunteers who trialled the drug did experience a relief of their psoriasis, but the side effects dramatically offset the positives. They suffered from hallucinations."

Jameison nodded as he looked over the study. "This certainly changes things."

"Yes," agreed Carver. "I've updated Mr. Holmes' medical records with a full psychological evaluation and diagnosed a second episode of psychosis coupled with paranoid delusions brought on by the damasaproxyl. I believe that this explains his unusual behaviour in and out of prison and the extreme paranoia that led to him committing murder."

Carver slid a page over to John and to Mathieson. John didn't look at it. Whether it was true or not, it felt like an invasion of his friend's privacy.

"No further questions," said Myers.

The judge spoke: "In light of all the information now given, do you have any further questions, Mr. Daniels, Ms. Myers?"

Daniels did. "What's your opinion of Dr. Carver's diagnosis, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock thought for a moment. "I know it's in my best interests to plead insanity," he said, "but I've got to be honest - Magnussen really was evil and I don't have psychosis."

"No further questions," said Daniels.

Myers asked: "What's your opinion, Dr. Jamieson?"

Jamieson cleared his throat. "I must advise the judge - and apologies for this Mr. Holmes - that we should not take the prisoner's opinion into consideration here, as psychosis sufferers have an unwavering belief in the reality of their own delusions."

Sherlock's barrister had one more question: "Dr. Watson, Dr. Carver, in your opinions, if parole is granted, does Mr. Holmes pose a threat to the public?"

Carver started. "I would want to keep him under observation to ensure that the zamasaproxyl takes effect over the next couple of months, but based on Mr. Holmes' previous success with the medication and the fact that his crime was a singular incident influenced by the accidental consumption of hallucinogenics, I would be confident in releasing him."

"Dr. Watson?"

John cleared his throat. "Sherlock Holmes' dedication to fighting injustice is an inspiration even to the police. His ability to solve crimes is unparalleled, genius. The longer he is locked away, the more dangerous London becomes. Sherlock Holmes is far from a _threat_ to the public - freeing him would be a _gift_ to the public."

There was a long silence after John's dramatic speech. Sherlock's lip was twitching upwards and John was trying his best not to look, in case the pair of them burst out laughing and ruined it all.

Thing was, it might have sounded like hyperbole, but they had agreed to be truthful and John had meant every word.

* * *

Thanks for all the comments and favourites so far :)

Note: artistic license taken with court proceedings for the sake of the story.

I'm interested to know your thoughts on Sherlock's sneaky parole plan as this has answered a lot of questions that a lot of you have been wondering about throughout the story...


	29. Honesty

"Parole granted!"

John jumped up at the table. "Yes!" he shouted and near ran over to Sherlock, pulling him into a hug. Sherlock, his hands cuffed in front of him couldn't reciprocate. John just held him tight - he couldn't believe they'd done it. They'd done it! Sherlock would be coming out, maybe they could live together again, they could investigate cases again, he could be Annabelle's crazy uncle, they could...

He became aware that he was still holding his best friend tightly, his head in Sherlock's shoulder, breathing him in. Sherlock's face was turned slightly towards him, his face in John's hair. It seemed quite... was it quite... intimate?

He pulled back a bit and looked up at Sherlock, their faces close.

Sherlock looked him right in the eyes, lip quirked upwards into a half-smile.

John half-smiled back.

Then he remembered where they were and turned to see the judge, the barristers and the other two doctors, all either stone-faced or bemused.

"Oh, um, sorry," he said, letting Sherlock go and returning awkwardly to his seat.

The judge started talking, but John didn't hear a word. All he could think about was the hug he'd just had with Sherlock, their faces close, almost as if they might kiss. Had he imagined it?

No, he hadn't imagined it. He'd had Sherlock Holmes in his arms and they'd been looking into each other's eyes. They'd had a _moment._

And John must have instigated that moment, turned a friendly hug into... something, because there was no way Sherlock had. Was there?

Okay, so Sherlock clearly liked John more than he liked anybody else, but not _like that_. Sherlock didn't even like anyone _like that_, did he? The man was married to his work.

Okay, so clearly John had instigated it.

Had Sherlock noticed?

Of course he'd noticed, he was Sherlock Holmes.

But then why had Sherlock smiled? Had he _liked_ the intimacy? Was he just amused by its inappropriateness in court? Or amused that John was clearly attracted to him, a slave to inferior impulses that he himself was above?

Oh crap, what had he done? Sherlock would never let him hear the end of it, he'd torment him with logical, matter-of-fact ridicule or, worse, pity.

They wouldn't be able to live together again, not now. They'd have to have some sort of horrible conversation about boundaries and Sherlock would never fall asleep on the couch because he'd feel exposed and every time they accidentally brushed against each other John would have to over-apologise.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.

Everyone was standing to leave. John stood as well, automatic.

"Drifted off a bit there, what did I miss?" he said quietly, to Dr. Carver.

Carver looked at him with mild disdain. "The parole conditions and he's got to finish off the week in jail while the paperwork is processed."

"Oh... right..." John trailed off.

Sherlock was walking over, somehow elegant even in handcuffs.

John just stood up straight and avoided his gaze as best he could without making it too obvious that he was trying to avoid his gaze.

Sherlock leaned in close.

John held his breath, not knowing what to think, but then Sherlock just turned his head slightly to speak into his ear. "See you Friday."

...

Sherlock was back in prison just in time for lunch.

Thomas Dimes and Trevor Stone looked away as he passed them, not so tough now their leader had been shot in the head.

Without a word, Sherlock passed his food tray over to the greedy prisoner who'd traded a week's worth of lunches and dusting duty for an electrical workshop job card. The cup of tea he kept and carried over to a quiet corner, where he sat, fingers pressed together at his chin, blocking out the rabble and disappearing into his thoughts.

Only three more days and he would be out. However, first he had to survive those three days without incident and whilst driving himself insane wondering what all that had been about with John earlier.

He'd been taken by surprise when John rushed over to hug him.

He hadn't realised until that moment, but for months, the only human contact he'd had was being beaten up on a semi-regular basis. John's caring touch was explosive.

Before he could think what he was doing, he'd relaxed into it, turned his head towards his friend and just breathed him in, enjoying their closeness.

And when John looked up at him, their faces almost touching, he couldn't help but smile.

Still. John was straight. Wasn't he? He'd denied being gay often enough, had plenty of girlfriends in the past, and, of course, a now-ex wife.

Yet...

Everyone started off thinking they were straight in a society where they were socialised into heterosexuality, where they were treated as straight until, and unless, they realised they weren't and actively labeled themselves otherwise.

People weren't brought up with the idea that sexuality was a spectrum, weren't encouraged to question where they fell on it. And so it took some gay and bi people years to realise they weren't straight and some never discovered it at all. Could it be that John...?

No. Sherlock was just seeing what he wanted to see. John's hug had clearly been platonic. Prolonged, but platonic. Sherlock's reaction had been more than that of course. It had been... affectionate.

Had John noticed?

Of course he'd noticed. John was no genius, but he was far more experienced in matters of the heart than Sherlock was.

And what had he thought?

John had pulled away, then sat, face shifting with frowns and furrows of his brow in response to his inner thoughts rather than what the judge was saying.

He hadn't looked happy, that was for sure.

Sherlock had already spent over a year torturing himself with potential reactions John could have to the revelation that Sherlock was in love with him. Their friendship ruined with awkwardness, John trying to make light of it all to break the tension with humour, John's condescending understanding.

Now he wondered - was John unhappy at the idea that Sherlock liked him, or unhappy because he didn't know what to do about liking him back?

Sherlock had leaned in close afterwards, wondering if he would dare to plant a kiss on his best friend's mouth, or even his cheek. John's eyes had widened as Sherlock's face came nearer and nearer - had it been surprise or horror?

Sherlock had lost his nerve. "See you Friday."

Three days. Three days.

A fist slammed on the table in front of him and Sherlock looked up. It was Tutty.

"I'm still waiting for my coke," he said, dangerously.

"I told you, Chapman confiscated it."

"How is that my problem?"

"Jonesy's dead, Dicky's dead, Mrs. Chapman's in jail. Another jail. There's no more coke, Tutty."

"Then I guess you'll have to pay me some other way," said Tutty.

Sherlock frowned. He really didn't need trouble this week. He'd heard of cases where parole decisions were postponed for bad behaviour. Getting into a fight or, worse, getting found out for drug dealing, could see him stuck in here.

"What did you have in mind?" he asked Tutty.

"Shift guy's changed. Don't like me so much," Tutty said, and slammed his work card down. "What you got?"

Sherlock reluctantly pulled out his traded electrical workshop pass.

"That'll do," said Tutty, grabbing it with a grin.

Sherlock picked up Tutty's card and turned it over to see what fate awaited him in his last three days of prison.

Cleaning the floors.

Just what he needed.

...

John was violently scrubbing the kitchen floor at Baker Street, rubber gloves, soapy bucket, the lot. He wasn't one to be meticulous about housework, but he drew the line at the floor being covered in the dried animal blood that Sherlock had spilled during in an experiment just before Christmas. Poor Mrs. Hudson hadn't wanted to touch it.

John didn't particularly want to touch it either, but there you were.

He wasn't really sure who he was doing it for. Sherlock wouldn't care either way and John couldn't exactly just move back in, not now he'd realised he was in love with Sherlock and had made things awkward by making it obvious.

No, Sherlock would be back in two days and John would be gone.

He was only staying at Baker Street till then because Mary had chucked him out, saying that she wasn't having her ex living on the couch even if it was just for shared baby care.

They hadn't yet figured out the logistics - you couldn't really do custody arrangements with a breast-feeding newborn - but the short of it was, they were no longer cohabiting and so John had let himself into Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson was away, but he knew she wouldn't mind. Would Sherlock?

John didn't know. He'd potentially lost all his flatmates this week.

He sat down on the kitchen floor, letting his gloved-hand and the sponge fall.

How had it come to this?

Only a few months ago he'd had it all. An amazing wife, an amazing best friend, a baby on the way, a nice flat, a well-paid and meaningful (albeit dull) day-job, an exciting and meaningful sideline in solving crimes and blogging about them. Life had been good.

Now what did he have?

An ex-wife who he couldn't trust.

A beautiful daughter who he wasn't going to live with.

A best friend who he'd alienated with his inappropriate infatuation.

The flat came with Mary; the crimes came with Sherlock.

The day job. That's all he was left with. The bloody day job.

And right now he didn't even have that - he was on paternity leave and because he couldn't spend it with his daughter he was spending it scrubbing Sherlock Holmes' floor whilst worrying that the man knew how much he loved him and was repelled by it.

How could John forget the way Sherlock had begun his best man's speech by saying that he couldn't congratulate because all emotions and in particular love stood opposed to the pure, cold, reason he held above all things?

At best John could expect a blank stare from Sherlock, at worst, pity or disgust.

He threw the sponge at the wall and it splattered blood and soap in its wake.

...

Disgust, then pity, Sherlock thought, as he sat on the rec room floor, idly pushing the soapy sponge around, barely disturbing the muddy footprints on the lino.

John wasn't homophobic or cruel, but if he was straight, the thought of another man being attracted to him would likely bother him. Just for a moment, a look of disgust would flash across his face, then politeness would kick in and he'd force it away. Too late - it would be forever imprinted on Sherlock's memory.

After that, would come the pity. Poor Sherlock, in love with a man that he can't have.

Sherlock wasn't sure which was worse.

He shuffled along the floor a bit on his bum and continued his scrubbing charade. He'd tried to turn it into an experiment, but there was only so much you could do with bleach and a sponge. And so he wet the floors a bit, just to get him to the end of the week.

Two days to go. Two more days to obsess over John's potential reaction to Sherlock's inappropriate infatuation, and then he wouldn't have to wonder any more because he'd see it first hand in John's facial expressions.

He knew what was worse than the disgust _and_ the pity.

The fact that John would drift away from him.

John had always been quick to correct people who thought they were a couple. He was embarrassed by the idea of it and he'd be embarrassed by the fact there was some one-sided truth to the matter.

John would try to get over it, of course, but he would fail. There was only so much awkwardness a person could experience before they naturally started to avoid the situation that caused it.

Before John started to avoid Sherlock.

Ironically, the fact that John was single was the opposite of helpful. John couldn't use a straight-marriage to buffer himself against Sherlock's affections. And at least Mary encouraged their friendship - hell, apart from that time she'd nearly killed him, she actually seemed to like Sherlock in his own right.

What would happen now?

John would drift away from Sherlock _and_ from Mary, and eventually he'd get another girlfriend, one who took him even further away.

And Sherlock would be alone again.

Was it really better to have loved and to have lost than never to have loved at all?

He was surprised by his own answer. It _was_. Before he'd met John, he hadn't known what he was missing, but he would never choose ignorance over knowledge, and the knowledge of loving John was something he would not give up for anything, even the belief, long abandoned, that he was happier on his own.

...

John had never liked being alone.

Okay, so he liked to have a quiet read of a newspaper, a long soak, a brisk walk, but only in-between periods of company and companionship.

Sitting at 221B Baker Street in the dark, he saw what his life could be like from now on. No Sherlock, no Mary, Annabelle only on weekends, days diagnosing dull disorders and nights staring at pointless television shows.

One day to go.

Should he...

The light flicked on, there was a scream, and John was hit in the eye by something cold and hard that shattered as it bounced off his face and hit the floor.

He jumped up to his feet, startled, reaching for a weapon that wasn't there.

But it was just Mrs. Hudson, back from her trip, and a broken plate. They both relaxed when they realised that the other wasn't an intruder.

"Oh dear!" she said. "What are you doing sitting in the dark?"

"Just thinking," said John, putting his fingers to his throbbing eye.

"About Sherlock?" she asked, rushing over to the freezer to get him some ice.

"Not everything's about bloody Sherlock!" John said irritably. Then, as quickly as his voice had raised, it lowered to apologetic: "Sorry, sorry, it's just..."

"Oh, why can't he just keep peas in here?" Mrs. Hudson complained, pulling out a plastic bag of something clearly biological and putting it aside with a flustered grimace.

John laughed. "Never boring though, is it?"

After a rummage she found an icy ready-meal that had been at the bottom of the drawer since the last time John had broken up with Mary.

John held it to his face and Mrs. Hudson sat next too him, wincing in sympathy. "Ooh, I don't know. Thought you were a burglar."

"It's... fine," said John.

"Is that why you and Mary...?"

"Because I look like a burglar?"

"No! You and Sherlock." She put on a pantomime whisper. "Being _gay_... for each other."

"Being gay for... no!" said John, a little too quickly. "That's not really the right... anyway, no, it wasn't about Sherlock. It just wasn't working. There were... well, issues."

She patted him on the knee. "I understand dear. My husband…" she sighed, irritated by the memory of him, "Marriage is hard, isn't it? All the lying, cheating, killing, drug-dealing. Well, at least Mary wasn't running a drug cartel, that's one thing to be grateful for…" She looked up, suddenly. "She wasn't, was she?"

"Not as far as I know," said John.

"Oh good. Such a shame though, you two finishing" Mrs. Hudson continued. "After that lovely wedding."

"Hmm, yes."

"Sherlock's beautiful speech. He did so well, didn't you think? Especially considering..."

John looked up. "Considering?"

"Well." She patted him on the knee again. "Don't worry dear. You've said it enough times. I know you're _not_ gay, really."

John couldn't quite bring himself to come out to her, not yet.

Mrs. Hudson continued. "It's just..."

"Just?"

"Never mind." She stood, and gave his arm an affectionate squeeze. "I'll just pop for a dustpan and brush. Sorry about the black eye."

...

"Sorry about the black eye," Sherlock said, as he left the toilet cubicle, soapy bucket dangling from one rubber-gloved hand.

"What?" Thomas Dimes spat, going in.

As Sherlock walked out of the loos, he heard the satisfying sound of a man slipping on a sponge and yelling as his face whacked against a cistern.

Perfectly placed, perfectly timed.

He smirked to himself as he moved on to the part he'd been looking forward to since he got the details of the cleaning job list. If he'd realised scrubbing duty meant access to everyone's cells, albeit supervised by a guard, he'd have kept the card the last time he got it instead of trading it for library duty.

Of course, information on his fellow prisoners was next to useless on his last day, but there were other things he could do with the access.

Trevor Stone's cell was his last of the week. Mr. Chapman was watching, supervising, at the door, expression irritated as he spent his Friday afternoon making sure the prisoner on mop duty didn't disrupt anything in the cells.

Sherlock got down onto his knees and started scrubbing the floor, keeping one eye on Chapman. The moment the other man's gaze wandered, Sherlock's hand shot out and fiddled with the bunkbed ladder.

Chapman didn't turn away nearly often enough though - Sherlock needed more time.

He poured bleach neat on the floor and pretended to be scrubbing hard at a difficult stain.

"Putting a bit more effort into this one," said Chapman, suspiciously.

"Well, it's my last act in here, want to take a bit of pride in it," said Sherlock.

"Hmmm," said Chapman, unconvinced.

"How's your wife by the way?"

That did it. "Ex-wife!" Chapman near-growled, his fists clenched.

"I see Dr. Carver's finally come to her senses and turned you down as well."

"Why you...!" Chapmen twitched towards Sherlock, and then he got control over himself and held back. "Just keep your mouth shut!"

In that moment of distraction, Chapman didn't notice what Sherlock's hands were doing.

Job done.

Sherlock stood and dropped the sponge in the bucket.

"If you want, I'll put in a good word for Mrs. Chapman's parole hearing," Sherlock said, cockily, as he walked past Chapman and out of Stone's room.

Just sixteen more hours and he would be out.

Would John meet him at the prison gates, or...

...

... wait for him at Baker Street.

John just couldn't decide. Why he was putting so much thought into such a minor decision, he wasn't sure. It just... it seemed as if he and Sherlock were on the cusp of something and one wrong move could ruin things forever. If he could just somehow get it right, maybe he could salvage their friendship...

"Deep thoughts?" Lestrade asked. "Thinking about..."

"Sherlock."

"...Mary. Ah."

They stood in silence for a moment, just looking around the fairground graveyard that Moriarty had chosen for his crime scene.

"Weird place," said Lestrade.

"Weird bloke," said John.

Lestrade pointed at a spot near the ghost train. "So you left Moriarty tied up in the magician's box, there."

"More... here," said John, correcting the location by a couple of feet. The box itself had been taken away for evidence.

"Then what?"

"Mary called an ambulance, I called Mycroft. The ambulance got here first, so we left. She wasn't quite due yet, we were worried..."

"Yeah, 'course."

Lestrade poked around at the ghost train car, old ticket boxes, knelt down to examine the pool of blood Mary had made when she shot Moriarty's henchmen.

Self-defence, John thought.

It was a strange life when you frequently found yourself having to define and categorise the deaths caused by your nearest and dearest.

"Then Sherlock showed up, the mad bastard," said Lestrade.

John thought that the D.I. was a little bit awed by Sherlock's prison break. There was a reason the three of them got on - John had a feeling Lestrade was a little bit in love with bending the rules to do the right thing.

"Do you think..." Lestrade started, awkwardly.

"Hmm?"

"Sherlock. Do you think he... finished the job?"

"Do I think he killed Moriarty and hid the body?"

Lestrade nodded reluctantly.

"No, no I don't."

Lestrade sighed.

"What you wanted to hear?" asked John.

"Yes, and no."

John chuckled. "I know what you mean."

No because it meant Moriarty was still out there; yes because it meant Sherlock hadn't killed him.

Like John, he had been pushed to the limits of his restraint, his morality, when he had Moriarty helpless and at his mercy. Moriarty might have escaped in the end, but John felt that he and Sherlock had come out on top - they hadn't lowered themselves to the consulting criminal's level.

Twelve more hours to go.

...

The moment the morning alarm sounded, Sherlock was out of bed and pulling on his prison outfit for the last time - he would be given his own clothes and an opportunity to change at the same time as his freedom and would strut out of the gates in a sharp suit and a stylish coat, collar upturned. What a glorious day.

Big Joe groaned at the noise. "Isn't it time you pissed off?"

"Nearly," said Sherlock.

"Good," Joe grunted, rolling over and pulling his covers over his head.

One last thing to do.

Sherlock grabbed his pillow and shook it over the waste-paper basket in the corner of the cell. Months of emotional outpourings to John, declaring his love, explaining his love, defending his love, worrying about his love, fluttered into the bin on tiny pieces of shredded lined paper.

He'd agonised for years over the best ways to say it or whether to say it at all, and then, in court, he had given it all away with an accidental turn of the head, a moment of intimacy that John had surely recognised as meaning that Sherlock had feelings for him.

The time for unsent love letters, procrastination and speculation was over.

He would tell John, or he would deny it forever, to John and to himself, but one way or another, it would be done. Today.

Maybe.

He wasn't sure he could muster the courage for either decision. He could give up his love and save his friendship, or he could take the chance to gain everything and potentially lose both.

An hour to go.

Sherlock wasn't hungry, but for once he wasn't prepared to skip breakfast. He went into the canteen, took his tray, sat down and surveyed the room. Those who knew he was leaving looked pissed off, jealous, muttered about the unfairness, pigs looking after their own, blaming anyone but themselves for their own predicaments.

That wasn't what Sherlock was interested in though.

He bided his time, ate his porridge and then picked his tray back up and walked over to return it to the washing-up trolley. On the way, he passed Thomas Dimes and Trevor Stone, the former's eye black and bruised, the latter's right arm in a splint.

"Oh dear," said Sherlock, as he passed.

Dimes stared pointedly at his porridge; Stone looked up and scowled.

"Those bunkbed ladders are so unreliable, aren't they?" he said, feigning sympathy.

Stone's chair scraped against the floor as he stood, angry. His fists went up and clenched on autopilot, and he winced and exhaled, favouring his broken wrist as the exertion sent pain shooting through it.

Dimes just avoided eye-contact, not willing to put himself out without Dicky's bulky frame to hide behind.

"Careful," said Sherlock to Stone, "You wouldn't want to hurt yourself by punching me in the ribs." And he shot them a smug grin as he walked out of the canteen and to freedom.

...

In the end, John just sat and waited in his chair at Baker Street.

When Sherlock swept in, it was as if he'd been out for an hour rather than in jail for months.

"What's that?" was Sherlock's casual opening line.

"What?"

"That," he said, pointing at John's black eye.

John touched it, self-consciously, as Sherlock swept his eyes over the floor, towards the door, and back at John, deducing it all, despite Mrs. Hudson having swept up the evidence. Sherlock's lip quirked upwards. "Why were you sitting in the dark?"

"Can we focus on the important issues, please?"

"Ah," said Sherlock, a little defensive. "So you did notice."

"Notice?"

"Yes... are we talking about the same thing?"

"I don't know," said John, suspiciously. "What are you talking about?"

Sherlock just sat down opposite John, fingers pressed together at his lips.

Lips, lips, lips and oh bloody hell.

"Cup of tea?" John asked.

He took Sherlock's silence as an affirmative and went through to the kitchen.

Sherlock, ever unable, or unwilling, to take a subtle hint, appeared behind him at the kettle, too close. "John?" he said into his ear.

John jumped. "Jesus!" he exclaimed, turning round. "You're like a cat!"

Sherlock wasn't sure what he had intended by coming up behind him. Now that he was there, he found he had nothing to say. Nothing that he was willing to say out loud, anyway. And so they just stood, avoiding each other's eyes, for longer than was comfortable.

"Did you want something?" asked John, eventually.

"Um. Coffee. Yes, I was going to ask for coffee instead of tea, but on reflection, I've decided that I do, in fact, want tea after all. So do carry on."

"Okay," said John, puzzled.

Sherlock started to walk back through to the living room.

John turned back to the worktop and popped teabags in their mugs.

They both span around to face each other. "Sherlock." "John." "You first." "You." "Okay, me."

John took a deep sigh. "Um, I just want to apologise for any... misunderstanding..."

Vague. Yes, vague was good. Vague could be denied later. Vehemently denied. They misunderstood each other all the time, he could fall back on any number of plausible examples if he needed to. The coffee, the murder, the fact he'd ignored Sherlock's phonecalls whilst investigating Moriarty.

If it turned out they _weren't _talking about the same thing, Sherlock would never need to know that he'd been apologizing for being in love with him.

"There's really no need, John, I don't expect you to have the same..." Sherlock started.

"... I want you to know, that it won't affect our friendship..." John said.

"... inclinations... well, that's good, I would hate it to..."

"... I'll get over it. I mean, it'll be awkward, but..."

Okay, this was getting rather less vague, John realised, but there was no turning back.

"... So you can put it behind us, that's good... " Sherlock said, relieved.

"... Of course, I mean, I know you don't... you're not... "

"... Because I know you're not… you don't..."

They stopped and stood in silence, John holding a forgotten teaspoon in one hand. His mind was racing, so he could only imagine what was going on in Sherlock's.

Had he just admitted that he had feelings for Sherlock and then had Sherlock agreed that he would put it behind them so it didn't affect their friendship? Or had something else happened? Something was off about the whole thing. Something wasn't quite right, but he couldn't put his finger on it.

Sherlock's brain, of course, had moved much faster.

"When you said you'd get over it, John..." said Sherlock.

"Um, yes," said John, wondering where this was going and if it was the most excruciating conversation he would ever have in his entire life.

"Did you mean..." said Sherlock. "Well, I assumed you meant you'd get over the fact that I..."

He trailed off, looking pained. Clearly he was enjoying this about as much as John was.

Sherlock took a deep sigh. "But perhaps you actually meant that you'd get over the fact that you..."

John was frozen. He couldn't move. He couldn't think.

"That I... that you..." said John, comprehension finally dawning. "Oh my God. That you. That _you_."

"Yes," Sherlock confirmed. "That I."

"That you…" John repeated, breathless, still not knowing how to complete the sentence. Instead he asked: "Are you sure?"

Sherlock laughed. "I'm sure. Are you?"

"I... yes, but... well, I didn't expect you to... I thought I'd just have to forget it, get over it, so... "

They stood, frozen. Of course they'd both imagined this moment, but they'd never _really_ imagined it, never expected to find that the other felt the same way as they did.

John's mouth quirked up first. Sherlock's followed. A moment later they were laughing.

"I thought..." said John. "I thought you would... I never thought..."

"Indeed," agreed Sherlock, a shy grin on his face.

"This is..." John said, still half laughing with amazement, yet simultaneously terrified. "What... what does it mean? What... what do you want?"

Sherlock looked as nervous as John felt. "That entirely depends. What do you want?"

"I... I just left one relationship because of the lies..." John said, cautiously. He didn't want to ruin the moment, but he had promised himself, no more lies in his life, no matter how much he was in love with the liar.

"Not because she shot me?" Sherlock teased.

"Well, yeah, mostly that, but I need to know that... no more drugging me for experiments without asking..."

"And if I ask?"

"... no more elaborate deceptions designed to keep me safe..."

"What about unelaborate?"

"...how can I keep _you_ safe when... and no more faking your death."

"That was really a one-time only..."

"Or actually dying. None of that either."

"Of course not," said Sherlock. "Relationship."

"What?"

"You said _relationship_."

"Did I?"

"Yes."

"Yes, I did, didn't I."

Sherlock put his hands on John's shoulders and turned serious. "I can do honest," he said.

John smiled, putting his hands on Sherlock's hips...

Sherlock flinched.

John started back.

"Sorry," said John, reflexively.

Sherlock kicked himself. "Don't be," he said.

He wanted this, he did want it. He just hadn't expected to ever get to this point, wasn't mentally prepared for it.

They just looked at each other, awkwardly, for a few moments, Sherlock's hands still on John's shoulders, John not knowing what to do with his.

"Did something... happen... in..." John tried to ask.

"No!" Sherlock said.

There was a long pause.

"Well." He sighed. "In the interests of truthfulness... maybe a little bit. Nearly."

John had never wanted to punch something so badly. His brow furrowed.

"That's not it though," said Sherlock, backtracking. "I just... I haven't... usually I don't..."

He pursed his lips determinedly, took John's hands and placed them back on his hips, his own hands covering them, controlling where they went. John, as usual, followed his lead.

Sherlock took a moment to observe the sensation of it, John's hands on him. Not quite sexual, but definitely a place only a lover would hold. It was different, new, but it was good. It felt like they belonged to each other; like they fit.

John was puzzling over Sherlock's silent contemplation.

"We don't have to do this," said John. "Have a... you know. A relationship."

Sherlock leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth. A chaste, dry-lipped kiss, but John's heart thumped hard in his chest.

"Yes we do, John," said Sherlock. "We really, really do."


	30. Beginning

When John got home from his bi-monthly hospital night shift, Sherlock was already up, or still up, pyjama-clad, and mid-experiment, staring down a microscope at a petri dish of something-or-other.

"How's Annabelle?" asked Sherlock without looking up.

"That's this afternoon," John said. He looked suspiciously at Sherlock. "Are you aware that it's four in the morning?"

"Is it?" said Sherlock, disinterestedly.

John put the kettle on, popped some bread under the grill and a few minutes later shoved a plate of toast and a cuppa at Sherlock, sitting down opposite him with his own.

Sherlock grabbed a slice, not taking his Lycra glove off or removing his eye from the lens of the microscope.

"So, are you ever going to tell me?" John asked.

"What?" asked Sherlock, taking a bite of his breakfast.

"You know," said John, but he still added: "The parole hearing, the loose ends."

Sherlock looked up. "But it's four in the morning, John," he protested.

"We agreed on honesty, Sherlock," said John.

Sherlock hesitated, brow furrowed. Eventually, he said: "I suppose we did, didn't we."

"Well?"

Sherlock took his gloves off and pushed the microscope aside, picking up his mug of tea instead.

Now John knew that he had his attention.

"Okay," Sherlock sighed. "You deduce, I'll confirm, deny or decline to answer."

John frowned. Deduction wasn't his strong point. But it was clear that Sherlock needed a little help here to get over his embarrassment and get it all out.

Sherlock, as usual, could read his mind in his face. "Deduce... or just ask."

"Okay," said John.

He'd started this, yet he hesitated, took a bite of his toast and a mouthful of tea to gain a moment to collect himself.

He wasn't used to talking about personal stuff and feelings with another man, and Sherlock wasn't used to talking about his feelings at all. John didn't know how Sherlock perceived it, but for him it was like he was re-learning how to communicate - not how he would with a girlfriend, because they were both men, but not how he would with Stamford or Lestrade or his old army buddies either, because Sherlock was his - boyfriend? - and because Sherlock was Sherlock.

Truth be told, John didn't particularly want to talk about it either, but he did want to know. And if he could overcome Afghanistan and Moriarty and accidentally marrying an undercover C.I.A. Agent, he could face a little awkwardness with the man he loved.

Not that he'd told him the love part yet - it had only been a week.

"Okay," John repeated, more assured this time. "A few years ago, you did cocaine and it gave you drug-induced psychosis."

"True," said Sherlock.

"Shit, that must have been..."

"It was," said Sherlock, curtly. "That's why I got clean."

John knew that Sherlock would rather focus on the concrete facts than talk about how scary it had been to be totally taken in by his delusions and then have the zamasaproxyl unpick them, revealing that he could not trust his own eyes, his own brain, his own mind.

A terrifying thing for anyone to go through, let alone somebody like Sherlock, whose ability to think clearly was his whole life, his whole reason for existing.

"You were prescribed zamasaproxyl."

"True."

"It worked, so you kept taking it."

"True," said Sherlock, looking unconvincingly interested in his toast all of a sudden. As if needing medication was weakness.

"It was easy to hide it from me because although I see, I don't observe," John said to break the tension.

Sherlock sniffed a laugh – mission accomplished. "True."

"When you went abroad, they prescribed you damsaproxyl."

"True. Damasaproxyl for psoriasis, zamasaproxyl for pscychosis. An easy error to make, especially with the language barrier."

"Shit," said John. "So you really were hallucinating all that time?"

"No."

"You didn't take the drug?"

"Of course not. I noticed it was the wrong one immediately."

"Thank God."

As much as John would like to think that Sherlock hadn't been himself when he left him for two years and when he killed Magnussen, he hated to think of him suffering through hallucinations on top of his ordeal with psychosis.

Sherlock pursed his lips. "Indeed."

"When you returned to England, you started back on zamasaproxyl."

"False."

"What? Why?"

"I had been off it for two years and hadn't suffered a relapse. I don't do cocaine any more. I'm as sane as you are John. I didn't need it."

Sherlock could be right, but it still worried John. A person with psychosis couldn't always self-diagnose sanity. But thankfully Sherlock had John for that now, so he dropped it.

"Then why get me to prescribe...? Oh, of course. You only asked for it when you went to prison, when you came up with the parole plan."

"Of course. The drug mix-up gave me the idea. Zamasaproxyl takes a few months to get into your system - I wanted them to think I was safe again to help along my parole hearing, so I started pretending to take it. Then I faked a mental break-down, mentioned the damasaproxyl to Dr. Carver in passing and let her put together the rest."

"Brilliant," said John.

Sherlock's lip twitched upwards. "I never get tired of that."

"I love you," said John. He'd been building up to it, saving it, but it had slipped out without him even thinking about it.

If Sherlock noticed the significance of John saying this for the first time, he didn't comment on it.

And just because he wanted to, because he could, John put down his mug of tea, moved round to the other side of the table and kissed Sherlock Holmes.

It started as an affectionate peck, but a moment later it was deeper.

John's thumbs were on Sherlock's hips, his hands curved around his sides. One he moved around to the back, hand resting lightly on the curve of Sherlock's backside. He hesitated, but Sherlock didn't protest.

The other hand, he moved up, over Sherlock's shirt, to his chest, along his collar bone. Every bump, every dip and detail, sent an excited shiver through John from head to toe and everywhere in-between. He knew Sherlock could feel it against him.

"Too fast?" John asked.

Sherlock shook his head and pulled in closer, not further away. His arms snuck, hesitantly, under John's shirt and around his back and waist. That touch, so innocent as far as sex went, yet so intimate, so hot, skin-on-skin...

They pulled each other closer, their bodies pressed together, their grip on each other desperate, wanting.

John ran his fingers lightly over Sherlock's bare neck, behind his ear and up through his hair, grasping, tugging his head down slightly.

The kiss made John's head want to explode. Soft and warm and Sherlock.

Sherlock pulled back his head a little.

"I... I love you too," he said. And then he grinned, the rare, bright grin he reserved for serial killer cases and unsolvable mysteries and John Watson.

John grinned back.

They laughed, foreheads pressed together, arms still holding onto each other tightly as if they were each other's lifelines.

John whispered, "And I'll never get tired of that."

* * *

Well, that's the end folks! Thanks to everyone who has taken the time to send me comments, it has been fantastic hearing from you all. If you have made it this far please do send a comment and let me know what you thought. My favourites are of course the detailed ones where you tell me which bits you liked (and maybe which bits could be improved), but even a note saying, "Read this, liked it!" would be brilliant. Go on, you know you want to make my day! Thanks for reading :D

Sarah x


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